A Fine Line Between Love and Hate
by Lady of the Old World
Summary: When Amara receives a letter from someone from her past, it sets the wheels in motion for a series of events which have both monstrous consequences and great rewards. With proposals, haunting pasts, and betrayals, what will happen? Read to find out.
1. A Letter and a Proposal

**Warning:** **This story includes yuri; that is to say, a pairing between two women. You don't like it? You don't read it. The door (aka the back button) is right at the top left hand corner of your screen; please don't read this just to be a close-minded bigot and flame the lesbian nature of the characters.**

 **Also, this work of fiction uses the American names for Haruka and Michiru. Their personalities remain the same – and I hope I've captured the Neptunian Senshi's correctly – as does their relationship; their American names simply fit better than their Japanese in this continuity.**

 **Oh, and yes, I do reference the movie "Angels & Demons" – as to why I do this, you'll find out in Part Two. (Yes, I'm calling them "parts" as opposed to "chapters." That's because I originally began this as just a three-part trilogy, and then Eva pried the idea from me, and we got to brain storming. Things got out of hand quickly.)**

 **Disclaimer:** **I do NOT own Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon; the goddess known as Naoko Takeuchi does. Nor, do I own the references to Angels & Demons; Dan Brown owns the copyright to the book, and I believe Warner Brothers the copyright to the film... If I'm wrong it was an honest mistake; you can't sue me for that.**

 **And now, to shut up my ramblings, and without further ado, on with the story!**

* * *

Emerald eyes contemplated the letter before her. It wasn't that she knew the sender not; on the contrary, she knew him very well, but rather it was his _words_ which disturbed her. A long-fingered, pianists hand ran shakily through short, cropped blonde hair, before coming to settle upon the gold cross she wore; it hung about a chain of the same metal. The palm was slightly slick with sweat, though only this betrayed her nervousness. A breath of air was gulped, inaudibly, before she forced herself to look rationally at the situation.

Tenou Amara was the name by which this woman was known. She was a twenty-five-year-old racer, Formula One prodigy since the age of fourteen, and staunchly-devout Catholic. Standing at six-foot-one, she possessed piercing emerald eyes, short-cropped sandy-blonde hair, and preferred to dress like a man. This woman was all those things and more. However, anything about herself was, for the moment, far from her mind, as she re-read the letter from her long-time childhood companion; one of her best friends for life.

Patrick McKenna. The brother she had never biologically had. Amara allowed herself to fight her musing memores only for a moment, before relinquishing the fight, and allowing herself to slip into the comforting embrace of times past. Times, when everything was much, much simpler; mostly, times when her trio was together, and not seperated by thousands of miles, and their own lives. For the moment, her mind was turned to the relationship she had had with the only male memeber of the group - she would dwell upon her other best friend at a later date.

She and Patrick had been the best of friends since they were seven years old. The two had gotten lucky, when they ended up attending all the same schools. Of course, that hadn't always put them in the same social groups. Their differing social statuses had been the cause for much hillarity over the years, but all in all, so long as they could stick to each other like glue, they were fine.

Patrick had been the top of their class academically. The straight-A student everyone hated and loved at the same time, he had been one of the few non-geeky, non-nerdy, non-dorky geniuses. His downside, however, when it came to popularity, had been his unwillingness to date anyone. He had always said he would become a priest, just like his adoptive father was. The popular students disliked him for this; always said his "calling" was "uncool," or that celibacy was "overrated." Patrick never paid them any mind; he simply kept doing as he always had, and that was that.

Amara, on the other hand, had always been the sports star. She could remember the day she discovered her ability to perform above par at any sport she tried her hand to. It was a very thrilling experience, if she remembered correctly. Of course, as for her popularity, that was a shoe-in, as she was the star of nearly every team the school had. Her average grades – which even Patrick's help couldn't improve – were ignored for the most part. Of course, eventually she selected the few sports she was most passionate about, and played on those teams exclusively; it helped her to devote more time and energy to what she loved, rather than all sports simply because she was good at them. (She also finally knucled down and yanked her grades up to a high B average, so that was also a good thing.)

Somehow, despite everything that happened during their school lives, they stayed close. Actually, they became closer, if that were even possible. By the end of their freshman year in high school – their ninth year of friendship – Amara had given Patrick the pet name of "brother of my heart;" Patrick reciprocated gladly, calling Amara the "sister of his heart" as well. This was how it went, all through-out their school years. When they finished high school, despite the fact that Amara should have begun racing professionally, she pushed the subject until she was finally allowed to enter the military academy with Patrick.

They learned to fly together, and couldn't have been happier; of course, all good things must eventually come to an end…

Realizing she had allowed herself to drift into memory simply to prolong the inevitable, Amara mentally slapped herself back to reality. With a soft exhale through her nose, she re-read the letter again. She was just as knocked off-kilter this time, as she had been the first; the blonde could scarcely believe her eyes, and yet, there were those words. The ones which had turned her world upside down within moments. They were there, written plain as day, in the clearest of Italian.

 _Il Santo Padre e morto._ The Holy Father has died.

Quickly placing the letter onto the desk in her hotel room – located in St. Petersburg, Russia – Amara picked up the phone and diled the operator. _"Zdravstvuĭte, pozhaluĭsta, soedinite menya s zarubezhnymi linii, ya dolzhen svyazatʹsya s Dubline, Irlandiya."_ (1) She needed to get into contact with Michelle immediately; to do that, she needed to get into contact with Dublin, Ireland.

* * *

The hotel room in Dublin, Ireland which the violinist was currently staying in was comfortably, yet rather sparsely furnished. The furnishings included, and were limited to, a queen size bed with emerald green sheets, a teal comforter, and emerald pillows; a small vanity with a chair; and an armoire in which, presumably, Michelle had placed her clothes. One of the two doors on the opposite side of the room lead to the in-suite bathroom, the other to the small walk-in closet. Of course, as was clear, Amara was only looking about the room to distract herself – or, more accurately, to distract her mind from wandering to a certain Irishman, whom merely being in this place called to mind.

However, it wasn't just Dublin which was turning her thoughts back to her childhood; Amara was still lingering on the letter she had received a day prior. After calling Michelle, she had done the one thing which came to mind: burned the letter. She hadn't seen anything else to do with it; after all, it wasn't as if she wanted to keep the evidence around. She wanted to forget what her best friend had written - or put it out of her mind, if the former were not possible - as quickly as she could. The letter would have only hindered this, and so she had quickly disposed of it; throwing it away would only have made her think about it more. She was dwelling enough as it was, and needed to shut it from her mind if she wished to remain sane, she scolded herself. She tried, but wasn't sure if it worked.

The racer's thoughts were interrupted, by the opening of the door, and Michelle's breezing through it. Masking her turbulent emotions, Amara pushed away from the wall, and allowed the violinist to waltz into her arms. A quick, chaste kiss later, and they were seated on the bed, the smaller woman speaking of her recent concerts, a smile brightening her features. For these moments – Amara knew Michelle didn't wish for her to speak, just to listen for a bit – the racer examined her lover of five years; and examined her closely, at that.

It seemed as if Michelle hadn't aged a day in the years they had known one another; and yet, Amara suddenly felt older than she assumed any twenty-five-year-old had the right to feel. She supposed it was because of the letter, but again shoved the thought from her mind, focusing completely upon Michelle. The smaller woman had skin of a glowing, peachy white, and curves which most women would kill for. As for her face, it was much like that of a china doll, with all her features what most would call 'perfect.' Of course, Amara held that, though only God and Christ were perfect, Michelle did come a close second. The violinist's hair tumbled in waves down to the small of her back, their hue being much like the aquamarine of the ocean; her eyes, though sometimes called sapphire, were only truly captured by the expression 'sea-blue,' for that was what they were – the blue of the sea, and nothing was closer than her eyes.

Thinking about her lover's eyes, put the blonde in mind of another pair of eyes. Ones that were mostly grey, but held a spark of steel blue when the right mood was upon the one to whom they belonged. Unconsciously, these thoughts caused her hand to move to her cross; Michelle noted the action, and commented on it, one perfectly curved aquamarine eyebrow raised.

"'Mara, is everything… alright?"

Her words were almost hesitant, as if she weren't sure of the answer she would get.

At length, the blonde spoke in reply. "I… Had a letter, the other day…" Amara trailed off, almost uncertain of what to say next. At Michelle's nod of encouragement, the racer continued.

"It was from Patrick; he said he would like to inform me that the His Holiness has died."

When this received a somewhat perplexed look from her lover, the emerald-eyed woman sighed inwardly, mentally face palming. She should have known that the words 'His Holiness' would be lost on her Shinto girlfriend. Taking a breath and counting to ten before letting it out, so as not to snap at Michelle for something that wasn't her fault – it seemed she'd been doing that a lot lately, snapping at people for things they had no control over – Amara spoke again.

"The Pope, love; the Pope is dead."

The aquanette's lips formed a soft 'o' shape, her understanding clear now in her eyes. "I see," she murmured in response, her hands coming to join with Amara's own. "And, this saddens you not only because of the fact that your religion has lost a beloved leader, but because Patrick was so close to him? He was the Pope's adopted son, correct?"

Amara nodded in reply to Michelle's query – both of them – the vocalization of her 'yes' unneeded. Michelle then took a moment, unknowingly just as the racer had done before, to intently study her other half. Amara's short cropped, sandy-blonde hair; her intense emerald green eyes; her masculine, yet still beautiful facial features… Her strong, wiry, athletic build; her masculine style of dress; the way she touched her cross when in deep thought, or when that old sadness clouded her eyes. The violinist knew well what that sadness was; it stemmed from a deep hurt that the blonde had once caused to someone she loved dearly, a hurt which Amara was never sure she could heal.

It was that very sadness, which told Michelle something she would rather not have known; something that she hated to acknowledge, but that she knew she would need to accept. The fact of the matter was, that Amara would never be fully hers – some part of the racer, however small, would always belong to the Irish priest, whom had been the first person the blonde had ever loved. Oh, Michelle knew that all of Amara's love in a romantic sense would be hers; it wasn't that. It was simply that the emerald-eyed woman would always love Patrick as well, even if not in the way of a lover. The violinist had never come into a previous situation where she knew she had all of someone in one sense, but only most of them in all others.

Sometimes, Michelle hated that she had to share Amara with Patrick, even if the blonde only considered him a brother.

Shaking the dark thoughts from her head, the violinist noted that her lover's gaze was fixed just as intently upon her, as the aquanette's had been upon the blonde. Raising her brow in askance for the second time during their conversation, Michelle repeated her first query, which had begun this conversation in the first place. As she did so, the shorter of the two women stroked the back of the racer's hand with her thumb, intending to be calming.

"'Mara, is everything alright?" The hesitance from the first voicing of these words was gone. The concern, however, was still there.

For a moment, there was silence, though for Michelle, that moment felt like an eternity. Then, Amara spoke in reply. "Patrick's letter… It got me to thinking, mostly about the fragility of life, and how quickly things can end. It also helped me come to a firm choice on a decision which I've been wrestling with for a good year now." Though initially hesitant, the emerald-eyed woman quickly gained surety in her words. Releasing her lover's hands, the blonde racer slipped from the bed, dropped to one knee, and then reclaimed the violinist's hands in her own.

Michelle could have sworn her heart stopped at that moment.

Though, if that was what it did merely at the gesture, then it literally exploded at the words her other half uttered.

"Kaioh Michelle," Amara began her short speech thus, using the Japanese way of placing the surname before the given name. "My angel, my love, my soul-mate, my other half; the air I breathe, the light of my life, my reason for existing, my only and ever true love…" She paused, wondering how best to say the final words. Eventually she settled upon the simplest form of them. "Will you marry me?"

Deepest emerald locked with brightest sea-blue. A moment stretched, became a millennia between them. Neither spoke, both fearing what would happen if the silence was broken.

As the silence lengthened, Michelle stood, and tugged Amara with her. And then, in wordless acceptance, yet in worlds more profound than those of the greatest poets, the violinist closed the distance between them, and kissed her lover deeply, passionately, and lovingly. A heartbeat-moment passed – then, a fire of passion and love ignited within both women, one they had never before known. The two tumbled onto the bed, their clothes soon meeting with the floor of the hotel room.

And, as two became one over and over again that night, in more profound ways than words can ever describe, the only witness to the love of these two souls, was Michelle's violin. The instrument rested in its case, propped against the wall. It hadn't been touched since the aquanette set it down to greet her fiancée.

* * *

 _We stayed in Dublin for another day, so that Michelle could finish with her concerts there. After that, while booking a flight to Italy, we both cleared our schedules for the next six months. I don't know if we rushed into things too quickly, but after being together for ten years - dating for five and lovers for another five - being engaged for less than three days meant little. In the end, all I knew was that I wanted the two most important people in my life to date to get to know one another, and if I could, to get my best friend to preside over the wedding._

 _Never did I think about what might happen when Michelle and I reached our destination in Rome._

 _Never did I envision what happened happening._

 _Never did I expect to be so grossly betrayed by the one I thought of as the brother of my heart._

 _And I sure as all Hell never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would forgive him for what he did._

* * *

 **End Notes:**

 **1: Translation: "Hello, please connect me to an overseas line; I need to contact Dublin, Ireland." Yes, Haru speaks Russian in this fic; as well as Japanese, German, Italian, and English.**

 **2: The style of the ending is like that which Feisu-sama uses; s/he inspired me to end part one like that. None of the other chapters will end like this, unless the mood trikes me.  
**

 **Now... I hope you enjoyed, and if you didn't tell me why. On second thought - tell me why you enjoyed it too. I like comments, encouragement, and critiques, but flames will be ignored.**


	2. A Visit and a Betrayal

**(A/N: A few updates from the original, but nothing too much. Just a bit smoothing out.**

 **Warning: Non-detailed rape.)**

* * *

Emerald and light grey were locked; the gazes were not hostile, simply assessing. As the two hadn't seen one another in five years – save for a visit neither cared to remember – the analyzing was understandable. The steel blue, which tinged that which had once been the hue of a stormy sky, accompanied the slightly wry grin that curved the lips of the man to whom these eyes belonged. The woman who stood across from him mirrored the expression, her emerald eyes sparkling.

For a moment, Amara was reminded of something which had happened years ago, but quickly put it out of her mind, in favor of recalling how she and Michelle had arrived. They had booked the flight to Italy, and the hotel, the day Michelle had agreed to come with the blonde; they had flown out the next day. The flight had been long, true, but as both had gotten much-needed sleep, despite the fact that his was contrary to the blonde's usual insomnia, it hadn't been too bad.

Upon arriving at the Italian International Airport, both celebrities had skillfully dodged their fans and the paparazzi, in favor of collecting their bags quickly, and catching a cab. That had been this morning; it was now afternoon. The couple had elapsed the drive to the hotel in comfortable silence; the drive having gone quicker than either had expected. The racer had even commented that, since she was last in Italy, it seemed traffic had improved. They had arrived at the hotel without much fuss; they had requested that they be treated like any other guests.

After everything had been unpacked, and the blonde had finished primping – the violinist had noted that this was out of character for the taller woman, but the racer had dismissed her fiancée's worries – the two had hailed another cab, and were headed for the Vatican. To ensure that they would have no trouble, Amara had called ahead to fill in the person they intended to see, that they were in Italy, and that they were coming to the Vatican. And so, the two had arrived, and informed security of whom they were there to see. After a call had been made to confirm their identities, the couple had been allowed inside, and then escorted to the Papal office.

Once there, the Swiss Guard had informed them that they could enter any time they wished, and then had promptly left them. Amara had then gently requested that Michelle wait outside the office. The violinist was only to come in when the racer called for her; the look on the blonde's face must have swayed the aquanette. Michelle had been slightly confused, but had chalked it up to the racer's simply wishing to catch up in private first, and so had agreed. Of course, Amara could feel sea-blue eyes burning a hole in her back as she walked into the office.

Now, coming back to the present, Amara steadily held Patrick's grey-blue gaze with her own emerald; a slightly cynical twist to her lips. No, she wasn't bitter; she simply found the situation ironic. More like dramatic irony, she mused. They had always sworn they would never come to an impasse, where neither knew what to say anymore, and yet, here they were, in that very situation. The silence stretched between them, with not a word spoken. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, Amara felt like a seven-year-old again.

Taking a moment to simply breathe, Amara used this time to look her best friend – the brother of her heart – over. He hadn't changed much in the five-year interim, at least, not in ways which were obvious at first glance. Of course, having known him all her life, Amara could pick out the subtle differences, how he had changed, and she was sure she knew the catalyst. The racer could see that the Pope's death had hurt Patrick deeply; he was in pain physically, mentally, and spiritually. And, that was not all that the slightly taller blonde could see. His eyes were a bit colder, his posture just a tad too rigid, his face lined with unspoken trials; and, most subtle, yet most obvious of all, was the shadow of sadness over his features, in his eyes... As she noted these things, a stab of guilt and déjà vu impaled her heart; an old fault come back to haunt her, nearly ten years after the fact.

 _'You once caused that look, you know; the sadness, the pain; the worn look of bone-deep weariness - they were your fault for a very long time. How could you forget that, and still call yourself his sister?'_ The little voice whispered into her mind; Amara felt the old guilt swirl within her once more - eating at her, constantly reminding her... _Your fault... Your fault... All your fault..._

Amara was glad that Patrick's speaking snapped her back to reality; she was glad not only for her sanity, but for him as well because of what she may have done, driven by the blame she placed on herself for something she could not control.

"Sister, I –" He broke off, searched for words. He took a breath, began again. "Sister, I never expected to see you here… Especially now, of all times…" His accent was, to an extent, thicker than Amara remembered it; this jarred her for a moment. And then, she remembered. At times like this, when deep emotion swelled within him, this was the time when Patrick's ever-so-slight, ever-so-soft brogue – his roots – showed the Irishman true for what he was. This brought a small, crooked smile to the racer's lips.

"Did you think I would leave you alone when you needed me most? Do you really think that I don't care anymore? Or, that time, did I wrong you so deeply that you can't rely on me anymore to be by your side when you wanted me here the most?" She knew how he could – how he would – interpret that last sentence. She had always been able to see how he would take some of her words, give them a meaning which she herself did not wish them to have, and then spit them back at her, at a later date. Amara had begun to notice this most about nine years ago, when they were seventeen.

It came from the unfounded hope Patrick still held; the one she would need to rip from him now.

Of course, being the type of person she was, the blonde disliked hurting her friends if she could avoid it, and so she cast about – covertly, of course – for some other topic of conversation. They always changed topics almost randomly anyways, so she wouldn't arouse any type of suspicion within the Irishman. A slight smirk curled the corner of her lips as she spoke, mirth glinting in her emerald eyes. "Unless you think it's bullshit, of course." Amara nearly laughed aloud at the scandalized look on Patrick's face; he was always so much fun to tease. Albeit, he seemed to have lost some of his humor; before, he would have laughed along, teasing her right back – now, he just looked traumatized. Or, so the racer thought.

"I _think_ you mean 'Peanut-butter,' sister." The wry twist to Patrick's lips effectively proved her wrong. This once, the blonde was glad to not have been right.

"Oh, no; I _meant_ bullshit." Amara's smirk returned full force with her words. The two-years-younger male shook his head, grinning both exasperatedly and affectionately.

"Mara, don't _make_ me get the cards." It seemed that her tactic had worked. Not only had the mood been changed, but the somber mood had been lifted. However, this train was about to come to a crashing halt.

"Get 'em! Five years since we've played or no, I can still kick your ass!" Patrick's mirth faded then, and the racer belatedly realized her mistake. She was occupied with berating herself mentally for being such an idiot, when her companions' speaking pulled her from her thoughts.

"Please don't curse in my Father's office, Amara." His voice had gone quiet, and his eyes – God be merciful, his _eyes_! The guilt they evoked within her tore at her heart in bloody, unscrupulous fashion. It quite clearly harkened back to a time ten years previous, when she had shattered his heart unintentionally, and when she had realized that they could never be the same as they had been ever again. They had been young and stupid, true, but at the moment, the racer felt as if she were fifteen once more – awash with shame due to something she had no control over.

A heartbeat of silence passed – a moment, or an eternity, neither was sure which – and the conversation was steered right back on track, the awkwardness not again mentioned, as if it had never been. "That aside, how has life been for you, sister? I have heard that you've won the Formula One World Championships twice now, and if rumors are correct, you're trying for a third…?" A grin curved the female's lips; she was quite proud of her status as the only woman ever to race in Formula One, let alone the only woman to ever win. "And as for you, brother of mine, it seems you've achieved much as well - _Il Camerlengo, mi sonoimpressionato._ " And she truly meant it; she was impressed, and her sincerely affectionate tone of voice said so, though her face and eyes gave away nothing. The blonde couldn't help but laugh softly, when the Irishman in question blushed modestly, and smiled sweetly at her. They always had been, and always would be, the best of friends.

That was why it was so much more the pity, that she was merely stalling what was inevitable.

She would have to break his heart a second time.

"May I ask you a question?" she began, suddenly nervous, absent-mindedly wringing her hands. She hadn't been this nervous in a while, but she knew very well why she was nervous now. Her friendship with him hung in the balance, in more ways than one.

"You just did," he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips. No matter how many times they played this silly little game, Amara never seemed to fully grasp it until two or three times in. He had to admit, it seemed a bit cruel, but he enjoyed this little game.

"May I ask you two questions?" she tried again, furrowing her brows a small bit in annoyance.

"That was your second," he grinned. He didn't think she was going to take that long to pick up on the game this time. But, there would be other times where she would take maybe ten minutes to ask the simplest of questions.

She held her tongue for a moment, biting back a curse or two. "May I ask you four questions?" she asked, finally stopping to figure out the little game Patrick was playing.

"You may," he allowed, cautious of her sudden – and completely uncharacteristic, so much so that it was almost alarming – nervousness surfacing again.

"As you very well know, I love Michelle," she started off. He nodded in confirmation. "Well, seeing as we've been together since high school, I figured it was time for the next step in our relationship. I asked her to marry me." Patrick stood to offer his congratulations, though it wasn't a surprise in the least. Amara held up a hand as a request for silence for a moment longer. "Would you marry the two of us?"

The hesitation on his face was the first clue that something was wrong. Second was the way that he shifted weight from one foot to the other – it was his nervous habit that had first made itself known during oral exams in high school. Third, and the homerun, was his answer. "I can't." Quickly, seeing the obvious hurt on Amara's face, which she hadn't bothered to hide behind her emotionless mask this time, he did his best to remedy what he had just said. "I give you my blessings, though. You and Michelle were made for each other."

"It's not the same," she mumbled, doing her best not to cry. It was sort of a stupid thing to cry over, and just crying in general was so out of character for herself that Amara almost wondered why she would, but the idea of Patrick marrying her and Michelle had become such a big deal for both her and Michelle that the wedding would now seem lesser than or incomplete with a different priest.

And then, seeing her sadness, it was as if something snapped within him. Granted, the way she stood – her coat falling slightly from her shoulders, revealing the tight red blouse beneath – didn't help matters, nor did her moist emerald green eyes, but the small part of his mind which shouted that he _should not do this_ was quickly silenced. He knew she wasn't doing it on purpose, and even if she were, he knew that she wasn't serious. Yet, when that thing snapped within him, Patrick knew that things would never – could never – be the same between them ever again.

Amara wondered what was up, when he stepped towards her, but she was busying herself with drying her eyes before she could make an emotional fool out of herself. She would beat herself up later for being caught off guard and letting events happen as they did, but for now, she didn't suspect a thing. Before she could speak, and even before she rightly knew what was going on, his hands were on her shoulders, holding her fast.

Then, his lips were covering hers, and she was reminded of what had happened nearly a decade before – only now, their roles were reversed. Taking her mind from the present had been a _very_ bad idea, it seemed; by the time the pain at the back of her thighs snapped her back to the here and now, she was pinned hard against the desk. Her body said struggle, but her mind recognized that she couldn't break the hold; he was the one with more training than she, after all.

A gasp of shock escaped her involuntarily then, as she felt one of his knees press between her thighs, spreading her legs forcibly apart. Vaguely, she wondered if the guards outside the doors would hear her if she screamed, but quickly dismissed the idea; she knew the whole room was soundproofed. For now, she had two choices: fight hopelessly, or submit and remove her mind from what was happening. Given the choice, she knew her pick right off. She had last been raped when she was eight years old; she wouldn't let now be added to the list without a fight, even if she knew she couldn't prevent it. But then, even the choice of fighting or screaming was taken from her.

She had been wearing a scarf of Michelle's, which he roughly removed and used to gag her. Screaming was now definitely out, as was struggling – she'd just choke herself with either. When he bent his head to whisper – to _hiss_ into her ear, she wished she hadn't slept through the class on how to block a sense. _'That would really be helpful now, stupid…'_ But of course, she heard every word all the same. Even if she didn't want to, she heard _everything_ he said.

"You know, every time I saw you kiss that bitch Michelle, I wished you would kiss me like that… But of course not; you ever were normal, Amara, so the fact that you chose to be a _dyke_ shouldn't have surprised me." His laugh was low and cold, and she forcibly held back a shiver. She had never before heard him so contemptuous. "Of course, in m opinion, it's just because you've never been with a man." And now, the blonde wished she'd told the whole truth about her childhood. She'd been willing enough to tell about her abusive father, but she had never spoken of the other horrors she had witnessed and been subject to at his hands. Molestation, rape, and psychological torture had only been the very tip of the iceberg.

The one sound she had hoped never to hear again – at least, never when pinned down by a _male_ – jarred her back to reality. While she had taken her little trip down the Elm Street of her childhood, Patrick had removed his outer cassock, and now only wore the close-collared black button down and black slacks. The sound which had jerked her back to reality had been the sound of the zipper of said slacks being pulled down. He probably saw the fear in her eyes, and spoke words which were probably supposed to comfort her, but which only made things worse. "Don't worry Amara; I'm just helping you fix the wrong choice you made." Of course, her mind knew when she had had enough, as she seemed to be entering a sort-of dream-like sate – as if a wall of water separated her from everything that was happening to her.

Thus, it only vaguely registered, when he pinned both her wrists above her head with one of his hands. She could hardly feel as he worked to get her pants undone. Amara was glad of this, even if she did know when her jeans (quickly followed be her boxers) reached her knees. Then, in a moment, as she felt his weight bearing down on her, everything ripped back into sharp focus. She struggled. She thrashed wildly. She would not – _could_ not – _must not let him_ – !

 _SMACK!_

Her head snapped back and connected hard with the surface of the desk she was all but laying on now. The force of the blow had her seeing stars. She could already feel the back of her head and the side of her face bruising. "The Devil is certainly strong in you, isn't he Amara? Get thee hence, Satan! Leave this girl be." In any other circumstance, she would have found it amusing that he was quoting Bible verses, and that he had called her a girl, when she was the older one here, but the situation sucked any humor there may have been found from the words. But of course, the coldness in his words focused her. He was hovering just above the one place only her gynecologist and Michelle were allowed to be, and yet, she could no longer fight. Just as when she was a child, a strong blow to her head would subdue her – she would still be defiant, but she would no-longer struggle.

And then, he slammed himself inside of her, satisfied that she wouldn't physically protest any longer. Her whole body convulsed with her near-silent scream. She barely felt the hard and fast rhythm he established, so intent was she on trying not to cry. Her efforts were valiant, but to no avail. Though her virginity had been taken from her two decades previously, she still remembered the event as if it had happened yesterday. She had felt as if she would rip in half from the sheer agony of it. This, however, _this_ was nothing short of white-hot _torture._ Every time he crashed back inside her, it felt as if she were being stabbed – speared, rather – by a lance of molten metal.

Amara supposed, later, that she had blacked out then. The next thing she knew, she was sliding down the side of the desk, and Patrick was standing just a bit away from her, spent and slightly out of breath. The racer's legs felt like water (ironically, much as they did when she had pushed herself even beyond exhaustion on a track and field track) and only a few scattered thoughts floated around her foggy, traumatized brain. _'Oh my God… I was just raped by my best friend… And on the late Pope's desk, too, for Christ's sake…'_ Dimly, she registered Patrick's collecting his outer cassock from the floor, after having zipped up his pants. Once the outer, robe-like garment was placed upon his person once more, he half bent down and reached out a hand to help her to her feet.

Everything was suddenly clear again, as rage flooded her veins. Knocking the offered hand aside, she stood under her own power. Yanking up her boxers and pants, she glared death at him. " _Traditore_ ," she breathed, and he looked confused. She hadn't even registered that she was speaking Italian rather than English; and yet, it was true. He _was_ a traitor. This served only to further ignite the fire of fury within her. As she fastened and re-zipped her own pants, Amara's glare only intensified. " _Traditore_." She spoke at a more normal volume, and though she finally registered that the gag had, at some point, been removed, she brushed this aside impatiently. As she spoke the adjective a third time, her vocal volume increased. Her hands balled into fists at her side, and she was visibly shaking with rage by the time things came to a boil.

" _Fottuto TRADITORE! Non potrò mai perdonarti! Non potrò mai parlare con voi di nuovo!_ " She finally screamed, before turning sharply on her heel and barging through the office doors to the reception hall beyond. (Calling him a fucking traitor and making it clear she would _never_ forgive him or speak to him again had given her grim satisfaction, but she completely ignored it for now.) Though she had noticed the fact that he had seemed to come back to himself – and with a gasp of horror at that – she had ignored it completely. Honestly, she couldn't have given less of a _fuck_ right now; the bruise on her face and the back of her head still throbbed painfully. "We're leaving," were the only words the taller woman spoke to Michelle, as she stormed past. The violinist followed; she said nothing, as she understood speaking would only fan the flames, but silently wondering what had caused this in the first place. Neither mentioned the vivid, large purple bruise on her face.

And meanwhile, Patrick worked to ignore the guilt from his realization – he had a wide-scale threat to finish planning, and Conclave was less than forty-eight hours away.


	3. Manipulation is a Delicate Art

**(A/: This is a** _ **completely**_ **new chapter. It's… not** _ **exactly**_ **an update, (so I'm sorry that you all got alerts for this) but it fleshes out the story more, I think. It, much like Part III which will now become Part IV, will show a bit about how I've…** _ **twisted**_ **, shall we say, the world of** _ **Angels & Demons**_ **a bit. It'll also give more of a look into Patrick's head. How he was feeling, during the threat that he** _ **himself**_ **created, and juxtapose it against his feelings about what happened with** _ **Amara**_ **.**

 **Warning: Artistic liberties taken with the** _ **Angels & Demons**_ **universe. Mentioned rape. Also, Patrick is a** _ **supreme**_ **douche here, and it stopped being subtle** _ **really**_ **quick... You've been warned. No flames, please.**

 **Well, not unless they happen to be** _ **constructive**_ **, of course…)**

* * *

Patrick McKenna was setting his Father's affairs in order – or, at least, finishing doing so – when he was approached by the professor that had been called in to help. (He would have finished up his duties before this, but he had been unable to bring himself to fully acknowledge the fact that his adoptive Father was _truly_ gone until now.) The man, Robert Langdon, wished to have access to the Vatican Archives, so as to better help them resolve the current… _issue_. Langdon posited that, as _Il Camerlengo_ , Patrick could grant him access to said archives. For all of a moment, the Irishman wanted to _snarl_ at the arrogant American. But, that moment of inexplicable rage passed, and the young priest – he was barely twenty-five, after all – turned to face the large windows that illuminated the hall just outside what, up until eight days ago, had been his Father's office. The Irishman tried not to think about how it had been here, mere days before, that he had smashed the ring his Father had worn with his own hands. He also tried not to think about the fact that, less than forty-eight hours before, the one woman he had _thought_ he loved had been standing here to see him for the first time in five years.

Hard as he tried, he couldn't banish the thoughts from his mind.

"His Holiness once told me, that a Pope was a man torn between the real world and the Divine." Patrick spoke as much for the sake of the others in the room, as to distract himself from his own thoughts. Turning away from the view of St. Peter's Square, the young priest affected a perfectly neutral, yet vaguely compassionate, somewhat sad expression. At least he didn't need to craft the sadness. With his hands folded behind himself, at the small of his back, he projected the perfect image of a collected, yet still mournful – still mourn _ing_ – young man. Someday, he would need to thank Evelyn for having dragged him with her on numerous occasions to her theater classes and practices, when they were in high school. The skills he had picked up then were coming in handy now, as he masterfully manipulated everyone in the room. "It seems that the real world is upon us tonight."

Uncrossing his arms, he moved toward the far end of the room as he spoke, headed more closely toward the doors to the Papal Office. "I'm familiar with Illuminati lore, and the legend of the brandings." Patrick came around in a seemingly-natural movement, making sure that he faced Professor Langdon as he did so. Robert would be the easiest to manipulate; the Irishman had known that from the moment he met the American. He never paused in speaking. " _La Purga_ is a dark stain on this Church's history. I'm not surprised this ghost has come back to haunt us." Langdon frowned, looking slightly skeptical, but not enough to question Patrick or his intentions. That was good; that was _perfect_. He would play them all like puppets on a string and have no-one be the wiser. Still, he couldn't spend too much time focusing on the symbologist; that in and of itself would have been suspicious and cause for questioning. Besides, he had _other_ targets to work on.

Turning to face Richter, Patrick addressed the Head of the Swiss Guard. This was a man he needed to tread more carefully with. This one would not be quite as easy to manipulate. "Commandante, have you begun the search for this explosive device?" As he spoke, Patrick made his way closer to the older male, making himself seem as ingratiating as possible, without going overboard. Yes… he would need to thank Evelyn, someday.

"Of course," Richter replied, completely unaware that he was being wrapped around the Camerlengo's little finger. "But it could be anywhere." As the two seemed to revolve on the spot, with Patrick continuing to move until he faced the doors to the Papal Office down the length of the room, Richter continued speaking. "My primary concern, at the moment, is the safety of the Cardinals."

Inwardly, Patrick frowned, but didn't allow his annoyance show in the slightest. Outwardly, his expression, voice, and eyes never changed. "The Sistine Chapel is a fortress; as long as the Cardinals are in Conclave, your security concerns are at a minimum. Devote as many of your resources – "

The Head of the Swiss Guard cut him off. Imperceptibly, Patrick's jaw clenched. " _Signore_ , if you're about to suggest a naked-eye search of the _entire_ Vatican City, I will tell you we do not have the people."

The younger man's face hardened, steel-blue eyes going cold for just a moment. His voice was deceptively calm, and it had also gone deadly soft. It was like the hush before a storm broke out. "Commander… Though I am _not_ His Holiness, when you are addressing _me_ , you are addressing _this office_. Do you understand?" Thank God he had listened to Amara when she had made him pay more attention during their military academy days… If either of his blonde best friends would speak to him ever again, he would need to thank them. Their insistence during their collective youth was _certainly_ very helpful now.

Richter seemed to want to say something, like it was burning the tip of his tongue. Instead, he simply pulled back a bit, and nodded. "Yes, Father," was all he said.

The Irishman kept the triumph out of his voice and expression, as he intentionally softened just a bit once more. "Good." He could feel Langdon and Vetra glancing at each other, and then away; if they became a problem… Putting that from his mind for the moment, Patrick continued, shifting a bit to face the two academics as he spoke. "Now, you said the image on the screen was illuminated by artificial light. Might I suggest, methodically cutting power to various sections of the city?" Yes, just suggest it… They couldn't be on to him, not so early. He wouldn't allow it. "When the image on the screen goes dark, you'll have a more specific idea of the camera's location."

Langdon was paying attention to him. Good.

A nod passed between the symbologist and Richter, as they accepted the idea. Patrick allowed himself only a moment of satisfaction. There was still more work to do. He needed to address the woman now. Though he seemed to cast his gaze down, as if in thought, he was analyzing her. Doctor Vittoria Vetra was… a conventional beauty. And yet, she also had a good deal of intelligence, given her area of expertise. Perhaps, in another life, in another world, he could have been attracted to her. As it was, she was merely another pawn for Patrick to maneuver about the giant chess board he had created. A small part of him pointed out her similarities to Michelle, but he put that thought out of his mind for the moment; it wouldn't do for him to be distracted, after all.

"Dr. Vetra, besides yourself and your research partner," he looked up to lock gazes with the brunette woman, "who else knew about this… antimatter project?"

The only woman in the room closed her eyes for a moment, thinking, almost as if shaking her head at his question. It annoyed him, but he wouldn't let it show. "No-one but the research team." Langdon was looking at Vittoria as well. "This project was strictly confidential." She paused for a moment, then continued. "But… Silvano kept detailed journals," Vittoria admitted. Now, even Richter was giving her his attention. How amusing. "If he told anyone else about what we were doing… he would have made a note of it."

"Do you have these journals?" Patrick needed to know. If anyone asked, it was for security reasons.

Vittoria didn't look surprised, just a touch suspicious, with a single eyebrow raised. Her voice sounded it, too. Damn. "I can have them flown here from Geneva in an hour."

The young priest requested them softly, "Please," playing the wolf in sheep's clothing to perfection. Once Vittoria had turned and left to make the call, the Irishman turned and addressed the American. "Professor Langdon," he said, expression and voice now completely neutral, as he made his way down the length of the room toward the doors to the Papal Office proper. He didn't need to check to know that the symbologist followed. Opening one of the doors to the empty, untouched office, he dismissed Richter and the Guards accompanying them with a look. Then he allowed Langdon to enter the room, shutting the door behind the older man.

Patrick ignored the feeling that this was an intrusion on what had been his Father's space.

He spoke, as he once more moved toward the windows, knowing that Robert moved with him by sound rather than sight. At the last moment, he moved toward the chairs instead, speaking as he walked. "Mr. Langdon, you are _correct_ that I _may_ grant you access to the archives…" Pausing, seemingly to collect herself, Patrick had to hold in a sneer at Langdon's _assumption_ that he had already given his approval for this… _arrangement_. Oh, the arrogance of some people… Adding a soft stutter for affect, the Irishman continued, focused sharply on the Professor and not the desk; now wasn't the time to think about his… _encounter_ with Amara. It would only distract him, and attempt to drown him in grief and guilt. He couldn't have that just then.

"Thank you, Padre."

Turning, the sneer wiped off his face to be replaced with perfectly fashioned frank openness, Patrick responded. "Ah, I-I said that you are correct that I _may_ , not… not that I _will_. Christianity's most sacred codices are in that archive." Patrick paused, then continued. "Given your recent… _entanglement_ with the Church, there is a question I would like to ask you first. Here," he gestured about them for a moment, for affect, "in the office of His Holiness…" Moving to be closer to Langdon, the younger man lowered his voice a bit, softened his expression, and kept anything incriminating from his eyes. For a moment, he merely regarded Langdon. Oh yes, this man would be easy to twist around his finger, to bend to his will, and all without Robert ever suspecting a thing. It was _perfect_. Not that any of his machinations showed, of course; that would have been… _unacceptable_.

"Do you believe in God, sir?"

The professor took a moment before answering. "Father, I simply believe that religion – "

Patrick cut him off. That was not what he had asked, the _fool_ … "I did not ask if you believe what man _says_ about God." His voice was too sharp; he softened it as he continued. "I asked if you believe in God."

Understanding seemed to flash in the older man's eyes. "I'm an academic." Pausing, he continued almost ruefully. "My _mind_ tells me I will never… _understand_ God." The professor's smile was certainly rueful.

It disgusted the Irishman, not that it showed. "And your heart?" He pried _ever-so-gently_. Manipulation was a delicate art, after all.

The symbologist paused once more, before finally answering just as Patrick's patience was beginning to wear. "It tells me I'm not _meant_ to. Faith… is a gift I have yet to receive."

Hook, line, and sinker. Another brief, unseen moment of congratulations was allowed. "Be delicate with our treasures."

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

As soon as Langdon was gone, and he was alone again, Patrick made the mistake of letting the emptiness of the office get to him. He let the silence into his mind, and allowed it to drag forth memories, both good and bad. Patrick tried to push them away, tried to ignore them, as he looked almost desperately around the office. He realized that he was looking for something – _anything_ – to distract him, when he found it. Despite there being many others like it in the rest of the Vatican, and many others both more and less ornate, he would have known that immediately. Moving around the desk, the Irishman crouched down and fished out the shining bit of metal to examine it more closely, even though he already knew what it was and whom it belonged to. He should have known, after all, he had been present when it was purchased, and when it had been blessed less than a week later. Wiping off the small bits of dust that had managed to accumulate in two days, he wondered how it hadn't been found before then.

It was Amara's cross.

However, before he could think further on it – why he had found it, if it had simply been a coincidence that it hadn't been found before, etc. – Patrick was startled by a member of the Guard appearing at the doors of the office. The Camerlengo was furious with himself that he hadn't heard the man coming, or at least that he hadn't heard him _knock_. Shaking his head clear, the young man straightened up and gave the other his attention. Conclave was about to begin. Frowning, Patrick thanked the Guardsman and dismissed him. This was highly irregular, and certainly unorthodox… Perhaps the Swiss Guard had simply heard wrong? Yes, that was likely it. However, he would still need to speak with Cardinal Strauss, to find out what was really going on. It wouldn't be out of place, and he still needed to place a few key pieces on the chess board. Taking another look at the cross he held, he made a choice, and threw it away in the wastebasket in the corner of the room. It was, in the end, the best thing to do, he thought, as he left to find the Cardinals.

Amara would certainly never want it again, and having it on him wouldn't help his mental state.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

The College of Cardinals was being led up the staircase. Patrick, thanking his military training for the degree of athleticism and coordination that he _did_ have, briskly made his way up the stairs around the rest of the red-robed clergy, searching for Cardinal Strauss. At first, he merely walked quickly, taking the stairs one at a time, but his step quickened to something like a jog the closer he was to reaching the final landing. He found the German Cardinal at the top of the long, wide staircase, standing at the midway point between the landing proper and the doors that would be sealed at the beginning of Conclave. Slipping through the advancing line of Cardinals – "Excus me, _Signore_ ," – the Irishman made his way over to speak quietly with the man he had been seeking. He didn't want to _alarm_ anyone, after all… Well, not _yet_ , at least.

Approaching the man he had known since his teens, Patrick spoke softly. "Cardinal Strauss, you've been informed of the situation?" If he hadn't, then security really was lax around here…

" _Ja_." Patrick knew the rudiments of German from having known the Cardinal for nigh on ten years, and knew more than that simply from being friends with Amara. If he could still _call_ her his _friend_ , of course, after what he had _done_ … Shoving that thought from his mind, he walked along with Strauss, listening as the German continued speaking. There were few people on this Earth that he still respected as much as he respected this man. "My belief is that we should proceed with the sealing of Conclave."

Well. It seemed that the Guard that had come to inform him _hadn't_ been misinformed. He voiced his thoughts to the older man. "At this late hour?" Patrick frowned, looking ahead of them. He needed to put what he thought into words, but at the same time he didn't want to _offend_ the man that had been like a second father-figure to him, whenever his adoptive father had been busy. "That… would be _highly_ unorthodox."

Thankfully, Strauss didn't seem offended. "And yet," he pointed out, firmly but not unkindly, "within Church law." He smiled slightly, wryly. "It's my power. I am Great Elector."

The Irishman had to laugh softly, almost soundlessly, his words coming just as wryly. "The _cruelest_ honor in Christendom." The brunette young man spoke almost as if sharing an inside joke with a friend.

"I have no personal ambitions, Patrick." The words might have been a reprimand, had they not been spoken softly, as the pair continued to walk alongside but apart from the stream of the College. "Only those I hold for my Church, St. Peter's Church, which is under attack at its most vulnerable moment. And this is not a coincidence."

Funny, how the old Cardinal's words echoed his earlier thoughts about his having found Amara's cross. Moving in front of Strauss, when they paused, Patrick proved himself still boyishly impulsive when he spoke. "The Church will _not_ fall in a day." At the very least, boyishly insistent. "We must _evacuate_ Vatican City."

If he _came off as_ boyishly impulsive, boyishly insistent, then so much the better.

Manipulation was a delicate art, after all.

Strauss didn't seem fazed; he had known Patrick since he was fifteen, and knew well how to handle him. "Oh, that is _exactly_ what they want," he spoke sagely, unaware that the "they" he spoke of was in all actuality Patrick himself, the boy whose best friend he had tutored in German for a year. What had the girl's name been? Amara? Yes, she had been the one of his small group of friends that had joined the Military Academy with Patrick… He should look her up again, once all of this mess was sorted out. "Publicity and panic. No," he shook his head wisely, "we must not give them oxygen for the media fire."

A beat of silence passed between them, as the rest of the College continued to move forward in the background of their conversation. Steel grey-blue eyes flashed with incredulity. "But, the people in St. Peter's Square – " the young priest began disbelievingly, only to be cut off by the elder speaking just as calmly as ever. " _Care deeply about their Church_ , as _we_ do." It may have been a bit pointed, but Strauss knew how worked up the young Irishman could get, and so had nipped the rant in the bud before it could begin. As he spoke, the German Cardinal resumed walking, only to pause once more. "Their faith will sustain them."

Patrick frowned, feeling rage pulse hot trough him. He allowed only a fraction of it out. "Their faith will _not_ protect them from an _explosion_."

Strauss seemed unaffected. "Well…" He smiled a bit and shrugged. "We are all bound for Heaven eventually, are we not?" His words and tone were markedly cavalier.

The younger man was incensed. Cardinal Strauss continued walking. "Spoken like one who has enjoyed the blessings of a long and full life," the Irishman spat at the German's back, words almost hissed in his rage.

The Cardinal turned back to him. There was something sharp in his blue eyes that the younger clergyman had not often seen – and even less often been on the receiving end of. "Patrick," his name was spoken with warning in its tine, "do _not_ confuse the _power_ of the office you _temporarily_ hold, with your _true_ place, here in the Vatican." Strauss did not need to shout; the intensity of his gaze and voice was enough to make the younger man reevaluate himself, and reign in his anger.

"You were a favorite of His Holiness," the words stung; he hadn't just been a _favorite_ , he had been his _son_ , even if _not_ by _blood_ , "but His Holiness is with his Father now." An indication toward the ceiling, meant to express that the Pope had gone to Heaven, was included to illustrate the point.

Feeling for all the world like a scolded child, Patrick pressed his palm against his heart. Any feeling but contrition was pulled tightly behind a mask as he did so. " _Mea culpa_ ," he said softly, appearing for all intents and purposes chastised.

Strauss took it. "Seal the doors." Softly worded as it may have been, it was not a request. It was an order. Then, the Great Elector walked away, not seeing his aide, Father Simeon, sneer at Patrick as he walked past. For a moment, the Camerlengo merely stared after the other two men, his gaze hard, before he, too, followed Strauss. He had duties still to perform.

" _Extra omnes_ ," the young Irishman ordered. Everyone who was _not_ part of the College was _not_ allowed inside the Chapel of St. Peter's during Conclave. _That_ was an ironclad rule and tradition. Strauss' looking back at him, was the last thing he saw before closing the double wooden doors, and locking them.

Stepping back, Patrick handed off the large keyring to a nameless, faceless aide. Then, he accepted a long, ornate chain from another such aide. A large, old, decorative lock was attached to one end of the chain, and the free end was fed through it, once it had been passed through both elaborate door handles. Once the chain was locked into place, the Camerlengo allowed it to hang down between the two door handles. His duties were, for now, complete.

Perhaps he would need to be a touch more… _sincere_ with Cardinal Strauss in the future.

Manipulation was a delicate art.

It was 7:25PM.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

Conclave proceeded. The Cardinals voted for themselves to prevent a majority. At 7:32PM, Patrick sent a wireless payment from a burner cell phone to an unmarked account on the Isle of Mann, for an unnamed recipient. Langdon and Vetra scurried across Rome like ants across a kitchen floor where food had been left. They failed to save the first of the four preferiti; Earth had taken its victim. Air was next. The two academics rushed across Rome back to St. Peter's at 8:50PM, just as the sun was setting. Patrick battled with his own demons, as he watched his handiwork unfold. Everywhere he turned he saw shadows of ghosts. Apparitions with emerald green eyes; specters with waterfalls of hair like white gold; phantoms surrounded by the scent of the sea. The three women he cared for the most in the world haunted his every step. The guilt from his actions to destroy them stabbed and ate away at him unscrupulously.

Robert and Vittoria arrived in St. Peter's Square at 8:58PM.

They arrived just in time to fail; Air had taken its victim – and the media caught it all.

A short time later, everyone congregated in an office once more; however, this time it was the Camerlengo's own, rather than the Papal Office. Langdon arrived – in priest's attire minus the cassock and the collar – a bit later than the rest. He had been washing blood off of himself. The professor entered the office just in time to hear Patrick reading part of the note that had been found on the bloody Cardinal's corpse. Reading the note, as if he didn't already know what it said. As if he himself hadn't told the assassin what to write. As if he didn't already know how things would play out. As if he weren't manipulating everyone and everything. As if he weren't playing everyone like puppets n strings. As if this weren't all one giant game of chess – and a rigged game of chess, at that.

As if he didn't already know that he would win.

" – _from within your walls, to squeeze the life from the Bishop of Rome._ He's _actually_ claiming _responsibility_ for the death of His Holiness. That's _ridiculous_ , he died of a stroke." Just enough incredulous anger was injected into the words. Though only Richter likely knew it, of the gathered audience for which he as performing this sick and twisted play, he _was_ a grieving son that had just lost his father. His reaction was _expected_.

Then Olivetti had to go and speak up, the annoying man. "It implies that the Illuminati murdered him. With his own medication." The last was obviously meant as clarification.

"…What?" Patrick's question was soft. Let them think it was from disbelief. None of them needed to know that it was really soft with the incredible rage he was suppressing with every fiber of his being.

"Down here." Olivetti leaned into his personal space to get at the bloodied, scrawled note. Patrick wanted to recoil in disgust, but refused to let anyone become even the slightest bit mistrustful of him. Manipulation was a delicate art. Still, he hoped that his slight, involuntary muscle twitch had gone unnoticed before he could still his instinctual, visceral reaction.

" _With man's solution we stilled his heart_ ," the Head of Security read. "W _ith his own needle, did we pierce his unholy veil_." As Olivetti continued, Richter looked over at them, though is glance was a sidelong one. "Did the Holy Father take any kind of medication by injection?"

Oh. Oh, this was _rich_. For a _moment_ , the Irishman had _forgotten_ that so _few_ knew of his father's condition. It just made this situation all the more amusing. "Tinzaparin," he replied to the query softly, as if unwilling to believe it. "He had thrombophlebitis. He took an injection every day… But no-one knew that…" Patrick looked around at the gathered audience, affecting perfect desperate denial.

" _Someone_ knew," Olivetti pointed out, perhaps a bit snippier than he hand intended to.

"Well, he had… health concerns," Richter allowed. "And seizures, as well."

Patrick continued to look around, mostly back and forth between Olivetti and Richter. He was doing perfectly in his affectation of being in desperate denial, and he would have given himself a moment to stroke his own ego, had he not needed to keep a steady hand on the conversation. He needed to keep things on track, after all.

Richter was continuing. "But he took steps to make sure he was watched, for safety. He didn't want to make it public, so we have no reason to discuss it." The Head of the Swiss Guard spoke as if that ended the conversation entirely.

Vetra spoke up then, _clearly_ having other ideas. Stupid woman; she was the only one he couldn't precisely read or predict, Patrick noted with no small measure of annoyance. "Tinzaparin is lethal in the wrong dosage." As if he didn't already _know_ that… Still, everyone else turned to look at her like sunflowers turning toward the sun. It made his blood boil. "An overdose could cause _massive_ internal bleeding and brain hemorrhages. It might _look_ like a stroke at _first_ , but in a few days, his body would show signs." She continued speaking as she stood up. "This could easily be examined."

Richter cut on, tone cold. "Miss Vetra, in case you're not aware of it, papal autopsy is _prohibited_ by Vatican Law." His voice was also scathing, showing a dislike that the Irishman couldn't help but admire. Even if he didn't like the Head of the Swiss Guard himself. "We're not going to _defile_ His Holiness' body _just_ because his enemies claim – "

The Head of Security, however, also needed his time in the spotlight. Greedy bastards, this was _his_ game… "Why would they send this letter now?"

Patrick wasn't having any of it. He _did_ need to keep that _firm hand_ on the _direction_ of the _conversation_ , after all. "Well, to cause panic." Having picked up the letter, mindless of the bloodstains, the Irishman pointed out a line. " _The sun will blind at midnight, and neither police… nor professors can stop it_." Trailing off, a flawless look of realization broke across his features, as he looked up at Langdon who had been silently listening up until this point.

The symbologist had to say what everyone was thinking. "He knows I'm here." What was the American saying for this kind of situation? Ah – _thank you, Captain Obvious_. Still, it served its purpose.

"Obviously," the Camerlengo continued speaking as if Langdon hadn't said a word, "they were hoping this letter would become public." Still, h appeared as if he were speaking to the professor; it was good that his audience think that. Handing off the letter, Patrick offered, "We might be wise to pre-empt their next attempt by making an announcement of our own to refute this… absurd claim." As he spoke, Langdon turned and seemed to be thinking deeply.

Unfortunately, as always Simeon never followed his assigned lines. "That's out of the question. Cardinal Strauss has insisted this entire matter be kept internal." His sneer wasn't present on his face, but his eyes showed clear contempt for Patrick.

The Irishman bristled, but fed his fury into well-placed disbelief. "He shouldn't even be _aware_ of it. He's locked in _Conclave_." If there was a hint of incredulous, affronted denial in there, then so much the better.

Not that Simeon could appreciate his impeccable acting, of course. "His final instructions before sealing the doors were _very_ clear."

It dawned upon the Camerlengo that, had Evelyn or Amara been there, they would have called this what it was.

It was a pissing match.

" _Cardinal Strauss_ does not dictate Vatican Protocols," a tiny touch of his internal fury seeped into his words, steel grey-blue eyes flashing and tone icy.

Simeon wasn't affected in the slightest. "As you say," he sneered, "yet, _technically_ , now that Conclave has _begun_ … It's _his_ privilege and duty to control public announcements." _Your power is gone, boy_ , his words seemed to jeer. His expression didn't show it, but his words and eyes were self-satisfied and smug. "I've drafted a press release about the incident in the piazza, but _any_ other statements are _strictly prohibited_. For _that_ , Cardinal has asked _me_ to remind _you_ … we have a chimney."

Richter seemed to find this funny, and got up to leave.

Tearing his furious gaze away from the smug snake that was Cardinal Strauss' aide, Patrick reigned himself in, and addressed the Head of the Swiss Guard. "Commander Richter, the search for the device?" he questioned pointedly, as he followed the older man to the door.

Pausing before he reached the door, Richter responded, as he turned back to face the Camerlengo. "Well, we've turned the power on and off to about 20 percent of Vatican City. Nothing on the video yet." His tone was neutral, and his expression to match, but Patrick felt as if he were being mocked. Not that he allowed that feeling to show, of course.

"We're running out of options," the Irishman murmured, injecting masterful desperation into his voice. "How long would you need to evacuate everyone?"

"If I pull all my men from the search for the bomb…" Richter paused only for half a moment to consider. "Thirty minutes." Then, he opened the door and left.

Everyone was just conspiring to infuriate him tonight, weren't they? Well, at least one man had yet to burn and throw away his script… Turning to the symbologist, who had been staring intently at the map of Rome on the wall, the Camerlengo addressed him. "Mr. Langdon, you have been right so far about the path." Robert looked away from the map to look at him. "It's now 9:15. How quickly can you find the next church?"

Langdon pointed at the map as he responded. "The lines of breath on the carving pointed due east, directly away from Vatican City…" His finger moved as he spoke. "But there were five of them, so there's room for error." Morbidly fascinated by watching the symbologist work out his created riddle, Patrick moved close to the map to watch as the American explained. "About twenty churches intersect those lines. _None of them_ have names that invoke fire, _so_ , a Bernini sculpture must be inside one of them that _does_. We'll need to get back into the archives to find it."

Turning to Olivetti, the Irishman requested, "Would you escort Mr. Langdon?" He was pleased by the quick, "Yes, Father," he received in response.

Vittoria seemed to realize something, once again disrupting the smooth production as it had been advancing. "Silvano's journals… The killer's name could be in here. May I stay?"

Patrick wanted to wring and then snap her neck. "Please. Fine, of course." Then he turned to follow Langdon ad Olivetti out of the office. He had something… _amusing_ to share with the American.

"Professor." The symbologist paused and turned around to face him. Standing in the doorway to the office, the Irishman had to allow a small smile to curl his lips. "Would it surprise you to find that those clothes suit you?"

Langdon looked nonplussed. "It would surprise the Hell out of me." The smile that came with the words looked forced and uncomfortable. Then, he turned and continued to walk away.

Patrick's own smile became a smirk for a moment, in the dark empty hallway where no-one could see. Yes, at least someone was still following his assigned script. Wiping his face clean, he turned on his heel and returned to his office.

He couldn't leave the Vetra woman alone in there, after all.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

 **9:30PM – Camerlengo's Office – Apostolic Palace – Vatican City – Rome**

Vetra was _still_ pouring through the _damned_ journals, as if she would _magically_ find something to help them. Patrick moved away from where he had been standing at the window, gazing down into St. Peter's Square, as the riot police allowed the crowds back into the piazza once it had been thoroughly cleaned and checked out. And once security had been doubled, naturally. Something had dawned on him, something that he was furious at himself of having neglected to think about. Well, he just needed to be more _careful_ , more _thorough_ , in the future… Allowing the sheer white curtain to fall back closed before the window, obscuring the view of the world outside, he turned from the window to walk back over to where the brunette woman was seated at his desk with the journals from her research partner.

"What sort of signs?"

She looked up, and the confused, startled expression on her face infuriated him. "I'm sorry?" Were all women but his three best friends this _dense_? For an academic, a researcher, a _physicist_ , she was pretty _stupid_.

Walking over to the desk, leaning close into her personal space to – unobtrusively – tower over and intimidate her, Patrick clarified his question. "If the Holy Father were given an overdose of Tinzaparin… what s-sort of signs… would his body bear?" At this point, she knew that he had been close with the previous Pope; playing on that knowledge would further ingratiate him to her, as much as the prospect disgusted him.

Looking down and closing her eyes for a moment, Vetra took stock of what she knew. Then, looking back up at the Camerlengo, she answered his question as clinically as possible. "Bleeding of the oral mucosa." As if she thought him a fool, she clarified. "His tongue. Post-mortem, the blood congeals, and turns the inside of the mouth black."

Taking a deep breath to control himself, lest he lash out at her, Patrick moved closer still, and took a seat as close to her as he could stomach. Their knees were almost touching. "Even after fourteen days?"

"It wouldn't show up until at least a week after his death," she responded.

Looking away, then down, and then at a point somewhere just beside Vetra's head, Patrick spoke softly, as if revealing something of great importance and of great sadness to her. "He was… very important to me…."

"Yeah, I understand." _No_ , he wanted to scream. _You know_ nothing _, you stupid bitch_. _You have_ no idea _what it feels like to be betrayed by the man who raised you, and to have to take his life with your own hands as a consequence. You. Know. NOTHING._

Internally, he combusted. Externally, he was taking a moment to make a hard, painful decision. "Will you come with me, please?" He spoke as he stood.

Packing her things up, Vittoria looked after him, thoroughly confused.

Leaving the office into the hallway outside and the security agents and the Swiss Guardsman stationed there, Patrick spoke to them quickly. " _Signori_ , would you organize a security team to escort Miss Vetra and myself to the crypt?" Simply saying her name made his skin crawl. "Yes, sir, we'll be leaving straight away."

Meanwhile, Vittoria stashed the journals in a drawer of the desk.

Joining the men outside the office, Vittoria seemed ready to lead the way. Patrick wanted to slap her, but motioned for them to be on their way all the same.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

As they entered the long nave of the Basilica, Vetra questioned where they were going. Patrick wanted to stab her, but answered anyway. "We're going to see my Father."

"I… don't understand?" He _really_ wanted to stab her. _Hard_. _Multiple_ times.

Still, he would need her sympathy going forward. So, he had to tell her things that only a very few people knew. "I was orphaned when I was nine years of age. A bombing in Ulster, the UVF protesting the visit of a Catholic Archbishop. The Archbishop felt responsible, and he adopted me the following day. I was raised by him and by the Church. He was the wisest man I ever met." Cardinal Strauss came a close second, but still. "Even when I was young and stubborn, I wanted to be ordained." He wouldn't say anything about Amara, Evelyn, or Michelle; this bitch didn't _deserve_ to know about them, or the friendship that they shared. ( _Had_ shared? That wasn't a thing to be thinking about now.) As they entered the grottos, he continued speaking. "But, I was brought up in Italy, so I also wanted to do my military service." His Father had been the one to insist, but he had ever been _opposed_ to the idea.

"I wanted to fight." Truthfully, he had never been suited for it, but he had been eighteen and stubborn. He had wanted to be as close to Amara as he could, still in thrall to feelings he was projecting onto her. "He told me, _Learn to fly_. So, I joined the _Aeronautica Militare_ , flew helicopters, bringing supplies and the wounded back to hospital." Amara had always been more combat-oriented; she had piloted a fighter jet. "He was a great man."

Like the dumb cow she was, Vetra questioned, as they came close to the entrance of the crypt proper, "Your father died?" Patrick _still_ wanted to stab her.

"Fourteen days ago."

And she _finally_ got it.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

 **937:PM – Vatican Grottos – St. Peter's Basilica – Vatican City – Rome**

The party made their way deeper into the grottos.

As they walked, the power went out around them. The security detail turned on their flashlights. "This way." Patrick didn't need to be told which way to go, but he kept silent. None of them needed to know what was going on inside of his head. None of them needed to know that they were wearing his patience _thin_. Still, his current objective was to curry favor for himself with the Vetra woman. She least of all needed to know of the hate that he held for her. Leaning close as they walked, he spoke. "If the Holy Father were murdered, the implications would be profound. Vatican security is impenetrable; no-one from outside could have gotten anywhere near him."

"It was someone on the inside?" The Irishman was contenting himself with _imagining_ stabbing, strangling, and then killing her by snapping her neck.

"We can trust no-one."

Arriving at his father's tomb, Patrick found his surety waning. Could he really do this? Even for the sake of his grand chess game, could be _defile_ his father's body like this? Then he reminded himself sharply that his father's body had _already_ been defiled before his death. There wasn't anything worse that Patrick could do now. Still, even with his hesitation shoved aside, the young Irishman dropped to one knee beside the tomb to pray. "Holy Father, you taught me when I was young that the voice in my heart was God's voice… You said I should follow it, no matter how painful… Forgive me… _please_ … Give me strength… What I do, I do in the name of everything you believe…" Head still bowed, Patrick crossed himself. Then he stood, and turned to face those that had come with him.

"Remove the cover."

If he had sounded and still sounded like a lost little boy… Well, then they were entitled to think that.

When no-one moved, he turned rage into tears, and projected it into his words. "Did you not hear me?!" Broken as he must sound to them, his voice still remained soft. The implication that he was close to shattering was a good touch, though. He would need to privately congratulate himself, when he next had a moment alone.

" _Signore_ , by law, we are at your command, but…" It seemed that the security detail didn't have the stomach to follow his order. Fine. That was just… _fine_.

"And someday I will ask your forgiveness for putting you in this position," he spoke over the other, older man, and forcefully at that. The tears still remained in his voice, however, for the desired effect. "But today I ask your obedience. Vatican Laws are there to protect this Church, and it's in that spirit that I ask you to break one of them _now_." Just enough emphasis was placed on the last word to make it known that this was _not_ up for discussion.

Finally – finally, the security detail and the Swiss Guards obeyed. However, some of his aggression needed to be vented. And, really, what better way to put into practice what of his military training remained? Not to mention, it added good affect and sincerity to what he had said. Even the Vetra bitch pitched in to help. He wanted to rip off her hands, but contented himself with the act that he was the only one _not_ winded by the time the lid of the sarcophagus-like tomb was off.

In the end, he was the one who lifted the heavy lid off of the wooden coffin inside the tomb.

Vetra looked squeamish. _Good_. Let her feel that way.

Pulling back the red cloth covering, since it seemed that no-one else would, Patrick suppressed his annoyance at everyone around him crossing themselves. Now was _really_ not the time for that, but he said nothing, and simply peeled back the semi-sheer white funeral shroud. Everyone else recoiled in horror. Some even gasped. Patrick just stared at what had once been his father, and was now a withered husk, with a blackened mouth, tongue, and eyes. Still, a little… _affected_ shock was in order. "God help us," he breathed, injecting flawless astonishment into his slightly trembling words.

Putting a hand to his mouth, Patrick refused to believe that there was wetness on his cheeks.

It was 9:52PM.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

Patrick had known that his Father had been murdered. He had injected the overdose with his own hands, after all. But still, he did have the part of the grieving, shocked son to play. And so he played it, and played it to perfection. In the Papal Office, he prayed before the wooden crucifix. He prayed with his rosary beads in hand, thinking more of the woman that had gifted them to him than he was truly praying. Just over two days ago now, this this very office, he had defiled her. He had hurt his best friend – hurt his _sister_ in ways that no man should ever hurt a woman. He had broken her trust. He had hit her. He had insulted her. He had insulted the woman she had loved since she was seventeen. He had implied that the Devil had a hold of her, and was the reason for her sexual orientation. …He really ought to stop beating around the bush, even in his own thoughts.

He had _raped_ Amara, _shattering_ the _trust_ and _friendship_ between them that was near _two decades_ old.

It was one of the few things that he would and could never forgive himself for. And he knew that she would never forgive him, either. Having enough of the charade of praying, he moved away from the cross, lowering the rosary beads he held. Of course, predictably, that did nothing to banish his thoughts of her. Even when he had thought that he loved her – romantically, at last – she had always haunted his thoughts. But this… this was different. She stalked his mind like a predator stalked their prey. She wouldn't leave him be, with her accusing emerald green eyes flashing hate, her thin lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl of fury. Still, Patrick knew that he had created this phantom of her himself. It was his own fault that she refused to leave him, continuing to torment him with what he had done to her. He deserved it, he knew that. He deserved every moment of anguish that thinking about her brought him.

And yet, his desperation to have her gone from him drove him to break yet _another_ Vatican Law.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

Conclave was progressing. Perhaps not _well_ , but it was _still_ progressing. And then everything went silent. The chains at the doors were being moved. They were being tampered with. They were being unlocked. Cardinal Strauss, the Great Elector, sat forward in his seat, expression calm but with fury blazing in his dark eyes. The doors opened. Who _dared_ – ?!

 _Oh_.

Still, he did have to say _something_. " _Signore_ , this is unacceptable. For a Camerlengo to enter the chapel once Conclave has begun – !"

Patrick cut him off. The Irishman's hands were spread wide in a supplicating gesture. "Forgive me, but… there's been a _development_ …"

The hush that fell, and then the whispering that broke out, was understandable given that they had just been told that the Holy Father had been murdered.

" _His Holiness Celestine V was murdered. Is it so hard to believe that it could happen again_?" one Cardinal suggested in Italian.

" _Signori_." Patrick, standing in the middle of the room, tried to get their attention. They continued speaking, so he had to try a second time, with a bit more force. " _Signori_ , please, a moment…" His hands were still spread in that placating gesture. "Please, _Signori_ …"

Once there was a hush, and all attention was on him – the way it _should_ be, after all – he continued speaking. Hs hand remained out in that same placating gesture. It was time for his monologue, so close to the climax of the play. "Our Church is at war. We are under attack from an old enemy." He turned his head, speaking directly to Cardinal Strauss. "The Illuminati. They have struck us from within." The young Irishman turned back to the College, putting force into his next words. " _Murdering_ our Holy Father, and threatening us all with _destruction_ at the hands of their _new god_ , science." Here, he injected a small stumble; he was _still_ just a boy, after all. Or, so he wanted them to feel. "They call it retribution, they – they think it justified… Because of the Church's attacks on men of science in the distant past, and it's true."

A small, brief pause to collect himself, and then he continued. "Since the days of Galileo, this Church _has_ tried to slow the relentless march of progress… Sometimes with misguided means. But science and religion are _not_ enemies. There are simply somethings, that science is just… _too young_ to understand. So the Church pleads, _Stop. Slow down. Think – wait._ And for _this_ , they call us _backward_. But who is more ignorant? The man who cannot define lightning? Or the man who does not respect it's natural, awesome power? The battle is well underway, _Signori_. We _must_ defend ourselves, but what if this time we fight their stealth with openness? Combat their wicked scheme with simple truth? And end this brutish battle once and for all?" Another small pause. "We must open the doors, tear down the blackened curtains, and speak to our flock."

Another stutter, once more of affect. "I-If the outside world could see this Church as I do… Looking beyond the ritual of these walls… They would see a-a modern miracle… A brotherhood of i-imperfect, simple souls, who want nothing more than to be voices of compassion in a world _spinning_ out of control…" One final pause. " _Signori_ , I-I ask… I pray…" And here he spoke to Strauss more than the College once again, "That you break this Conclave… open the doors… evacuate St. Peter's Square… and tell the world the truth." That was the end of what he had to say. He just hoped that it was enough. Because now, this was where his script mostly ended. He wasn't entirely sure what would happen next, but Patrick did know _one_ thing.

Amara had been the lightning of which he had spoken.

– **AFL – AFL – AFL –**

An indeterminate amount of time later – probably only a few minutes, though they felt like small eternities – Patrick was pacing outside the doors to the chapel in St Peter's. He had no idea what was going to happen. Truly, he didn't. He could only postulate, based on what he knew of the situation; and he had never been perfect at reading Cardinal Strauss. He hated that he wasn't and couldn't be sure. Guesstimations were for those that didn't carefully plan everything. Assumptions were for the arrogant. And he was neither of those things. The Great Elector's emerging from the no-longer sealed chapel broke his thoughts, and ended his pacing. For better or for worse, he would now find out what would happen, and he could continue to _accurately_ plan from there on.

"My son," Cardinal Strauss began haltingly. Patrick wished he would hurry it up, but said nothing, keeping his expression and eyes calm and placid. "God answers all prayers. But… sometimes his answer is _no_."

Patrick frowned. His eyebrows drew together above eyes like a stormy sky, and his forehead furrowed in picture perfect confusion. Not in anger. Certainly not.

"The College will not break Conclave. I suggest you direct your energies toward helping the Swiss Guard find this explosive device… If it exists. And leave Church leadership… to its leaders."

Still frowning, though with a clenched jaw and with hurt that hadn't been part of the plan in his eyes. Patrick nodded. Rather, he wordlessly inclined his head in acceptance of Strauss' words. Then he turned on his heel, and walked away.

If he pretended his cheeks weren't wet for the second time that night… then he was only deluding himself.

It was roughly 10:30PM.

* * *

 **(A/N: Geez, this… ended up being** _ **way**_ **longer than I planned it to be. Um… not sure what else to say, here. Other than, "Isn't Patrick just a** _ **spectacular**_ **psychopathic control freak~?" Yeah, that joke probably doesn't work. Sorry. Anyway… I… hope you enjoyed nearly ten thousand words of blithering.)**


	4. Good Enough and a Twist of Fate

**So, this is Part IV; it shows more of how I've tweaked things in the movie/book (though mostly the movie, I admit...) and yet attempted to keep things as canon as possible. The writing may not quite be my usual grade, but I plead the fact that the muse struck as I was watching the movie at midnight, and then wrote this primarily from the hours one until four, and then continued at five/six-ish after only one hour of sleep. Anyways, to end this freakishly long Author's Note, I will give you the disclaimer, and let you get on to reading this fiction of mine.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the movie/book Angels and demons, nor do I own the anime/manga Sailor Moon; both belong to their respective artists/authors/what have you.**

* * *

 ** _10:46PM – Papal Office – Apostolic Palace – Vatican – Rome_**

Eyes the color of a stormy sky stared at the flames. Thoughts of treachery – his own, in more ways than one – ran through the male's mind. He was, rather obviously, a priest; less obviously and more correctly, he was the previous Pope's chamberlain – he was _Il Camerlengo_. As such, until conclave had begun, he had held the power of the Pope. With the current events – three Cardinals dead, the race to save the fourth ongoing, the threat of the Illuminati looming, and Conclave at a stand-still – he was wishing he had that power once more. If he had, he would have been able to do… something, _any_ thing to help and/or to implement safety measures as well. And yet, what none knew was that this was all his master plan. No, he didn't want the Papacy for himself, but he wanted nothing more than to see someone ascend Peter's throne who would show science that it did not know everything – that it could not create and thus blaspheme in the most sacrilegious of ways the Moment of Creation, and thus God Himself. He took a breath; thinking thus wasn't helping the current situation, and he knew it well. Thanking the acting skills he had picked up from long years of watching Evelyn in her plays, and of observing Amara when she wore her mask of emotionlessness (or when she faked an emotion so perfectly it put even the actress of their group to shame), he turned from the flames, standing as he did so.

Patrick drew close to the small knot of gathered Swiss Guards; he didn't need to fake the drawn appearance to his face, but the cunning in his eyes – something else he had picked up from the first woman he had ever loved – was well disguised. Despite the drained, lined expression he wore, he made sure that he was otherwise outwardly calm. He didn't need to be – how would Evelyn have put it? – _freaking out_ , when he was so close to his goal, to the fruition of all that he had planned. The Guards, who had been conversing in hushed Italian, unsure of what to do next, fell silent at his approach. He spoke to them softly, once he was sure he had their full attention. Softly, yes, but firmly; he still held enough power, and retained enough of his military training to command them more harshly if need be. He truly hoped that need would not arise; Amara was the one fit for giving such orders, not him. Again, he put unneeded thoughts from his mind.

"At 11:15, if the Church is still in peril, give the order to evacuate the Cardinals. But, with dignity. Let them exit into St. Peter's Square, with their heads held high. I don't want the last image of this Church to be frightened old men sneaking out a back door. If Cardinal Strauss protests, escort him bodily. Do you understand?"

None of the Guards moved; their faces didn't even twitch. They didn't acknowledge that he had spoken. Then, one of them replied. Apparently, they were a bit unsure, and this was made clear by the choice of words – if _he_ thought it was the right thing to do, then they would do it. For a moment, Patrick struggled to keep his suddenly raging fury in check. Did they think him some kind of a _fool_? Of _course_ he thought it _the right thing to do_ ; otherwise he wouldn't have _suggested_ it! Taking a deep breath, but not a obvious one, he forced himself to calm. Now was not the time for such… _irrational_ anger and emotion. He made sure that his face never betrayed a single ounce of his inner struggle.

"I'm certain it's the wrong thing, and I will be removed from my post for it. But I also know we have no choice." Yes, play that card… Amara had always said he was… How had she put it? Ah, yes, that he was good at "bullshitting [his] way out of things that required a steady mind and a silver tongue." A steady mind both of his best friends would admit to having, though Evelyn a bit less so than Amara, but neither could lie worth beans. The younger blonde simply turned to glass when she tried, and the elder… well, she took the Eighth Commandment – the Ninth in the Bible – Thou Shalt Not Lie more seriously then he, it seemed. Snapping his mind back to the present, again the brunette found that he was slightly irritated by the fact that the Swiss Guard did not reply.

Their expression seemed to read, " _You're the boss, Signore_."

With a gesture of his hand that was more forceful than needed, he dismissed them. "Please, clear the room. I would like to pray upon the matter." The Guards left quickly, and the Irishman returned to his place before the flames. This time he knelt, holding a rosary he slipped from a pocket of his cassock. It had been a gift upon his ordination three years previously, just as the cross he normally wore had been. Though neither card had been signed, he could tell who had given him what. (The song lyrics – "It started out with a kiss/How did it end up like this?/It was only a kiss/It was only a kiss" – upon one card had identified the cross as being from Evelyn, and the words – "We'll fly together again someday," – upon the second had marked the rosary as coming from Amara.) As to the current situation, his head was bowed and his eyes were closed in prayer. Of the times he had done this previously that night, now was one of the few times it was not merely a motion. He truly did pray.

He begged forgiveness for what he had done, what he was doing, and he would do.

Not everything he prayed for, however, had anything to do with the Illuminati threat he had created.

–AFL—AFL—AFL—AFL—

 ** _Sometime After 11PM – Papal Office – Apostolic Palace – Vatican – Rome_**

He still knelt, when Rocher entered the office. He had, however, finished his prayers; he now only contemplated his fate, and the things that had lead up to this moment. He attempted not to think of what had transpired just over forty-eight hours ago; he didn't yet have the time for regrets – if he ever would. He heard a sound behind him, and turned as the door to the papal office opened. Unsurprisingly, Rocher entered; also unsurprisingly, the Head of the Swiss Guard closed and locked the door behind himself.

Patrick slipped the rosary back into the pocket he had withdrawn it from, murmuring as he did so, "Have you come to make me a martyr…?" No, he never wanted to be Pope; a martyr would be good enough.

That set everything in motion. They first, rather calmly, discussed things pertaining to the night; then things turned. An altercation broke out; the younger man let slip his hard-fought-for control, and shouting ensued. Eventually, Patrick moved back over to the fireplace. He contemplated it one final time – and he was sure. He needed to do this; he needed, in some twisted way, to brand himself for his own sins, and let the world know it. It wasn't just about his plans anymore, no, it had ceased to be about his plans some time ago, even if he didn't quite know when exactly that moment had occurred. And, surprisingly, Patrick found himself calmer than he should have been, for what he was about to do.

"I was planning on doing this alone…" He murmured at length, seemingly ignoring what Rocher had just said, as he pulled what had seemed to be a poker from the fire, but was revealed to be a long-handled brand. He ignored the fact that Rocher now had his gun out and held at his side.

"…But perhaps it's better that you're here…"

Again, he ignored Rocher and his gun, completely focused upon his task, as he ripped open his cassock. The words he whispered were lost completely in the resulting chaos, mostly in his agonized scream, when the brand – the Crossed Keys of St. Peter – was rammed upside down against his own chest, but… He had to say them, in hopes that the person – the _people_ they had been meant for would know he had voiced them. He just hoped, during the blur of ensuing agony (and both implicating Rocher as the "real" Illuminatus, and getting both Rocher and Simeon shot) that his suffering would somehow make those words so much less inadequate than he so painfully knew they were.

" _I'm sorry…"_

–AFL—AFL—AFL—AFL—

He was vaguely aware of directing things, even as his wound was cleaned, quite glad that he had long ago become proficient in appearing present and engaged in a conversation, and yet not really being so in truth. He noticed the attention that Langdon was paying Rocher, and was glad that the man seemed to have other, more important things to deal with. Thus, the symbologist looked away before he could take not of the key in the hand of the Head of the Swiss Guard. _'Heh, perfect,_ ' the brunette managed to think, through the haze of pain, even as he played along with unraveling a mystery he himself had created. _'They'll never suspect it… And, without anyone knowing about that key, or those blasted cameras, they'll never have anything concrete, even if they do come to suspect.'_ And then, as bandages were wrapped tightly about his bleeding torso – God in His Heaven, this hurt; he could only imagine what it must have felt like for Amara, to bind herself completely flat every single day – Patrick lead the way, and Vetra and Langdon, down to where he had ordered the canister with the antimatter placed.

He had originally planned, once everything else was said and done, to simply allow the batteries to be replaced. That would then allow Conclave to continue – since the revised and then re-revised plans fit much closer with his originals than he had expected – with the election of a Pope who would see the threat science posed. He had never intended to deviate from his plans; he had never intended to change anything after this point, unless it was completely unavoidable and/or completely necessary. And yet, as the saying went about the best laid plans of mice and men… He had failed to take into account that he was still human, and that, when Vittoria was so focused upon what she was doing… When she had seemed detached, even as she questioned if it were cold there, down in the Necropolis at the current time of 11:53, almost completely one-hundred-percent focused upon her work… He hadn't counted on seeing Amara's face, the same detachment upon it when she raced; hadn't counted upon seeing Michelle's, her eyes blank but her face placid as she played her violin for an audience of thousands; hadn't counted on seeing Evelyn, expressionless but expressing, emotionless but emoting, as she acted to perfection, or drove home her team's win on the soccer field… He hadn't taken into account the fact that he was guilty beyond words for how he had hurt them all… And that that guilt, coupled with seeing their faces as clear as day in his mind, had changed his plans drastically.

Patrick snatched the canister, and ran. He ran up and out of the Necropolis, back up the stairs from the Grottos, and through the long nave of St. Peter's basilica. By the time anyone caught up with him, he was shoving his way through the crowd towards the helicopter that he had originally ordered for the escape of the elder, more infirm Cardinals. It seemed he would be needing it, tonight, rather than they. Something gave him pause, however, but only for a moment – a flash of ice-blue eyes and pale blonde hair; Madrid-tanned skin, and a plaid shirt and jeans combination that only a certain one of his best friends would have dared to wear to a place like this, at a time like this. And then she was gone from his sight, vanished into the crowd again, and he was once more focused upon what he needed to do. He couldn't have repeated what he told the pilot – "Roberto, there's an emergency; I'll take her up alone!" – in the hours that followed, but he was glad he wasn't either numb enough, or in enough pain currently to have forgotten his years' worth of flight training. And as he looked down at the crowd for all of another moment (when had he suddenly gotten into the air? Maybe he was on autopilot just as he had thought…) and saw that bleach-blonde head once more, those bright, icy blue eyes. And then he only saw the night sky, as he piloted the helicopter straight up, going as fast as it would allow.

Ever higher the helicopter climbed. Patrick knew, instinctively, when it was high enough for him to safely parachute out of it; he redied a parachute, but didn't yet jump out. He ignored the steadily more incesssent beeping and flashing red light from the canister – the bomb – that told him he had less than two minutes to make up his mind about what he was going to do. He postponed his choice for a moment, crossing himself and murmuring one final prayer. Whatever happened next, nothing would ever be the same again. He lifted the cross to his lips, and kissed it. To anyone else, in any other situation, this would have been a simple gesture, an _expected_ one, given his station and the motion itself. However, in that moment, he wasn't just pressing his lips to the cross he held.

He was kissing _her_ , one final time – rather, for the second and last time.

 _Evelyn_.

He was acutely aware of the rosary in his pocket, now pressed close by the parachute he had strapped on.

 _Amara_.

Even as he parachuted out of the helicopter – which was now climbing on autopilot – he knew he couldn't die here. Even if only for the reason that he was sure one or both of them would have resurrected him just to kill him again themselves. He didn't register how long he fell, or how far; not even the few different times he bounded off of and collided with the roofs of the buildings in the Vatican reached him at that point. He was falling fast, tangled in the cords of the parachute as he was, and unconscious at that. It was no surprise he didn't feel any of his ribs snap or fracture. No surprise that he didn't feel when the aftershock of the antimatter explosion hit, or that he didn't notice when he all but crash-landed into St. Peter's square. He came to only when everything was all said and done, laying amid a huddle of worried pedestrians off of one side of the square. He thought he saw a flash of white-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes for a moment, but this was quickly gone from his vision, as he was helped up and escorted quickly to the medical wing.

At that moment, he thanked God numerous times for the numbness he felt – had felt, in truth, since the visit with Amara just over fifty hours ago. He found that fact strange. Just fifty hours… So much had happened in such a short span of time… It seemed as if he had seen the racer a lifetime ago, and yet he could recall what he had done in stark, painful detail. Strange… But, a good deal of things were strange that day and that night, weren't they, so it honestly shouldn't have surprised him. He was quite grateful, when he was injected with the morphine. Patrick wasn't sure if he could have dealt with the pain of having his ribs splinted, along with having all of his other wounds seen to, without it. In all truth, he was a bit preoccupied with the beeping he was trying to forget. The beeping of the canister in those last few moments had been all too like the sound Amara's heart monitor had made, when she was comatose for three days following the surgery to cybernetically replace her leg.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind when a Swiss Guard approached, the uniformed male offering him a salute. It seemed that the Cardinals wished to speak with him, but for what, he had no idea. His brain, already numb, was slightly fogged by the morphine, and couldn't process why they would want that. He could only nod, and request for the nun attending him to clean him us as much as possible; one didn't go into the presence of the College of Cardinals bleeding and bruised, after all. Well, at least not _visibly_ so, but that thought was irrelevant just then. Clearing his mid of irrelevant thoughts as best he could, he requested a second shot of the medication numbing the pain. He could already tell that this would be a _very_ long night, whatever happened.

–AFL—AFL—AFL—AFL—

As he approached the doors, Patrick was sure that he should have felt something… _more_. Some sense of _trepidation_ , some _curiosity. Anything_ to be honest, though he certainly felt the latter, even if only in a small amount and only distantly. His plans had all gone so awry from the original intent by this time that they had all but been tossed from his mind. After all, there was no possible way on God's good green Earth that they could know what he had done… Could they? _No_. He wasn't going to think about that now, lest he drop to his knees and confess himself totally and completely, ruining everything he had worked for this night. Stopping a moment, just at the bottom of the stairs, he took a breath to calm himself, just as he had so often seen Evelyn do before her first cue in a play, or Amara just before a race. Feeling himself sufficiently calm and in hand - or, as much as he _could_ be, given the circumstances - the steel-blue-grey-eyed male proceeded up the stairs and to the doors which would lead him into Conclave, and into the presence of the College of Cardinals.

What happened, when the doors were opened, wasn't what he had expected at all. He stepped in, finding total and complete silence there to greet him. For a moment, there was only the sound of the doors closing behind him, to fill the still void within the room. All eyes were on him; he could just _feel_ it. Resisting the urge to fidget nervously from foot to foot – this wasn't oral finals in high school, damn it – the _Camerlengo_ finally murmured his query, breaking the silence. "W-Why…" He broke off, swallowed, began again. "Why have you called me here, _Signori_?" He made sure to keep his voice neutral; he retained at least that much of his facilities. What he received in response had his mind racing a mile a minute, until it finally stopped dead in its tracks, only one conclusion able to be made. It wasn't possible, and yet… it was happening all the same.

" _Patricus… Patricus… Patricus… Patricus…"_

The repetition of his name raced around his brain like some demented litany. From his suddenly frozen mind, only one explanation issued forth. Only one could be found or given, in all honesty. It was none other than _Romano Pontifici Eligendo_ , Numero 63. Better known as _Acclimation by Adoration_. For one moment, he couldn't quite believe what was happening. But, as the wounds he had sustained still pained him – perhaps the morphine was wearing off? – it _couldn't_ have been a dream.

A nightmare, perhaps? No, nothing good ever happened in nightmares… At least, not to him, as his nightmares usually involved his father's death, his mother's death, what had happened to Amara during their time in the military, or what had happened when they were fifteen (well, he was fifteen, she had been seventeen). Actually, come to think of it, most of his nightmares involved either Amara or Evelyn in some manner, so the possibility of this being a nightmare was then quickly shot down.

At that moment, everything that had happened in the past few days came crashing down, and Patrick crumpled to his knees, having passed out dead to the world.

He got the feeling that if he ever woke up, a certain pair of blondes would be plotting his murder, most likely for his own stupidity.


	5. Pasts and Intrusions

**(A/N: As Evelyn notes at the bottom, this may** _ **seem**_ **like over ten thousand words of filler, but it's _not_. You'll need it as the story progresses, since references will be made back to things that happened before the main story-line took place. Edits have been made from the previous upload of this chapter.**

 **Warning: Mentions of rape and child abuse.)**

* * *

A hand rubbed gray-blue eyes wearily. Well, _that_ had certainly been an exhausting day and if the pain returning to his chest – due to the morphine wearing off – was any indication, he would need to receive _proper_ medical attention before it was over. The priest grimaced; he disliked hospitals as much as a certain best friend of his hated swimming – and that was saying something. A twinge in his chest – something akin to remorse – reminded him that she probably wasn't his best friend any longer. That pain had nothing to do with the broken ribs he had sustained from parachuting out of the helicopter, nor from the brand he had pressed to his own chest mere hours before. However, despite (or perhaps because of) that, the origins of the pain were written off as unimportant as of that moment.

Raising his head from where he had learned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, Patrick McKenna once again went over the events of the night – and the day – in his mind once more. The threat from the quote-unquote Illuminati had arrived with Vitoria Vetta and Robert Langdon following close behind. Oh, those two had thrown a wrench in the works, alright. However, thanks to his quick thinking – and a bit of momentary acting, the lessons he should thank a certain other blonde for – everything else had gone off without a hitch, and all without incriminating himself, to boot. Of course, now that he knew certain truths… He was beginning to regret some of his actions – _some_ , not all.

Turning from the view of the cityscape, to face the interior of the papal office – now _his_ office, a thought he couldn't help but wince at – Patrick gave a slight start. "Evelyn!" The woman's name was spoken with a slight gasp, once the wild beating of his heart had settled somewhat. The blonde, whom he had – ironically – just been thinking about, grinned at him, ice-blue eyes shining with her usual mirth. For the gray-blue-eyed male, however, the situation was not mirthful in the slightest. Evelyn stood in the same place a woman her senior only in age and height had stood mere two days before – and some irrationally paranoid part of Patrick feared the same would happen again. Shaking himself, he forced himself to focus on the situation at hand, rather than his over-active imagination.

Briefly, he wondered if that was what had brought the three together in the first place – they all had extremely active imaginations and crazy senses of humor.

"Lynn, what're you doing here, and don't you know how to knock?" Some of his irritation was portrayed and this just made Evelyn grin wider. By this time, the Cheshire Cat would've been jealous.

"It's against my religion – I strongly believe in doorbells and doorknobs, but knocking… Not so much," came her reply, laughter clear in her voice. A rather awkward silence followed – Evelyn awaiting an answer, and Patrick unsure of what to say.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," the gray-blue-eyed Irishman muttered at length. Ignoring Evelyn's cry of "You're no fun!" and pout, he repeated his original inquiry. "Lynn, what are you doing here? Did you talk to Mara before you came? Did she send you here?" He had added the second as an afterthought, but quickly realized his mistake, when icy blues narrowed dangerously at him. Patrick gulped inaudibly, thanking God that it wasn't warm enough in the room for him to break out into a nervous sweat. It took a lot to make the soccer star mad, but if you were unfortunate enough to do so… Even God would be hard-pressed to save you from her wrath. The only person whose wrath he feared more was Amara's; Evelyn may have been able to kick like a horse, but the taller of the two blondes had black belts in three or more martial arts, and also had her military training.

"No," the shorter blonde's answer came soft, but not frigid. "I haven't talked to Mara since the last time a race of hers and a game of mine happened in the same place. That was a year ago in Madrid." The last was added as clarification, but also served in further pointing out Patrick's mistake to him.

"Why are you here, then?" he asked, wanting to quickly move away from the topic of Amara. The blonde crinkled her nose, her eyes illustrating a certain amount of hurt. "Not that I'm not glad you're here!" he clarified. "I'm just curious as to _why_ you're here." Well, he was _certainly_ being reminded just why his two blonde best friends kept teasing that he had a severe case of Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome.

"I got your letter, you moron," she grinned, easily hiding her hurt and confusion. "You _wanted_ me to come. I just got here now because I had a game yesterday. So, I'm dog-tired, and if you _don't_ want to see me right now, I will return to my hotel room. I need to call my coach because I can't trust she checked her e-mail and caught mine that I won't be to practice today." Words clipped, she turned to leave before Patrick called her back.

"Sorry, I'm just not in the best of moods," he apologized, gesturing to a chair. "I do appreciate your coming. As you can imagine, it's been a bit rough losing His Holiness, and then almost immediately expected to become the Pope after all the... _insanity_ that went down yesterday." He shook his head, though she was unclear if it was in sadness or simply to clear his head. "But you obviously know how I've been. How have you been?"

She grinned as she sat down in the chair he had offered, running a hand through hair, bobbed short to be easily maintained during the rigorous soccer season. "I've been fine. I'm playing all the time and it's _fantastic_." She licked her lips before giggling. "English is a bit strange to me right now. I'm so used to Spanish." She shook her head before thinking for a moment. "Nothing fantastic going on with me. You know, the usual. I see plays and whatnot in my off time. Even if I can't understand it. I recently saw _Romeo and Juliet_ in Russian. At least, I _think_ it was Russian," she added with a small laugh.

"How can you _think_ it was Russian?" he asked, wondering just how air-headed his friend could be.

"I was in Russia," she began. "I've never heard Russian in my life. Guess what! Not as much Russian spoken in Russia as you'd think. Bloody everyone knows English." She groaned in frustration. "Who knows what damn language they were speaking." She blushed and covered her mouth before quickly adding, "Sorry for my language. I probably should have watched it a bit more carefully."

He waved his hand to dismiss her apology. His phone chirped; when he looked at it, his face immediately turned apologetic. "My meeting with the Cardinal just got moved up; this is insane to do this so late and I'm so sorry, but I have to go." He slipped his phone into his pocket before grabbing his wallet and suitcase. "I'll see you soon though, okay? I'll call you or something." He left her with a small smile and a one-armed hug.

She stood in the doorway to his office, staring after him as she stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets, brushing the tails of her plaid button-up out of her way. "Sure," she said cynically. "I'll wait for _you_ to call _me_... _Right_." She shut the door behind her before leaving to crash at her hotel ad call her coach.

* * *

Patrick sat facing the Cardinal, nervously picking at his thumbnail. The meeting, after that _insanely_ late and rushed first night, had wound up stretching across three days but this day would be the longest by far. He felt a bit guilty for, after finally calling Evelyn, hanging up while she was in tears; little did she know, he was also in tears. He hoped that explaining his life, more or less, to the Cardinal would ease some of the guilt from various parts of his past.

"I can't say the times we had together were _always_ the greatest, but they were better than things would've been without those two. The 'Blonde Duo' as they were so often referred to, were my best friends in the entire world; when we were together, the three of us, it was as if we could take on the world and win. But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. To truly understand us, and the bond we shared, I'll need to tell you how we met, along with everything we shared. Both the good times and the bad times. When we felt like we'd just stared death in the face and come out alive. When we felt like we'd conquered the world, just because we'd all gotten passing grades on final exams. When we'd felt like the world was crashing down around our ears because life sucked at the time. I'll tell you all that and more, from the very beginning.

"I first met the older of my two best friends when I was seven years old. As my mother was still alive at the time, most of the school bullies would harass me because I didn't know who my father was. It had never been too bad, so I learned to deal with it. Or at least, nothing was very bad until one day in the autumn of second grade. Whereas before things had just been verbal, with a shove or two thrown in once in a while, things then turned physical. That day was the first and last time I was ever in a fight until I joined the military academy. That was also the day a certain blonde whirlwind saved my life, and then refused to leave.

"Everything happened so fast, to this day I'm not sure what exactly took place, or how it transpired. One moment, I was waiting to have my face punched into one giant bruise, and the next, my assailant was on the ground, crying words no seven-year-old should know; his nose had been broken. No sooner had I turned to thank whomever had saved me, I heard the other boys - all were older and, frankly, stronger than I - rallying around their fallen comrade. By the time I had turned back around, my movements halting and my insides cold with fear, the group of boys was having the snot pummeled out of them. The girl doing it had this... _intense_ expression of disgust on her face. Though her boyish manner of dress, short blonde hair, and cold green eyes would have led anyone else to believe she was a boy herself, some part of me knew she was female - granted, her height, which was already impressive then, and her slightly masculine voice didn't help with that conclusion, but I digress.

"I believe that was the day my feelings for her began to develop. Even without knowing her name or anything about her, I felt none of the abject fear that should have been coursing through my veins at that moment. Though I didn't know why at the time, I felt I could trust her. Or, at the very least, I knew with almost insane sureness that I could trust her with my life. Call me crazy if you will, but that wouldn't change the truth. To this day, I would willingly trust either of my best friends with my life.

"When she had sufficiently taught the group of bullies why it was stupid to mess with her, she turned to me and said, ' _Kid, I think you just became my responsibility because there ain't no way in Hell or Heaven you could do with without me_.' And that was that. I had become friends with Amara Haruka 'Trouble' Tenou, called 'Trouble Tenou in our elementary school days. People knew not to mess with Amara, not unless they wanted to keep all their bones unbroken. I quickly learned what buttons I could and couldn't push with Amara, but the worst she ever did was give me a black eye no matter how pissed she was. That year, I learned that her mother was a native Italian while her father was Japanese - her looks and height came from her mother, while her name and personality came from her father.

"She was two years older than I, almost, and I found I couldn't envy the things she had that I didn't. Even the clueless kid I was at the time could figure that out. I couldn't see the signs at the time, but they're plain as day looking back. Having a mother often away at work was better than having none at all, and at least being able to believe that God was my father was better than having an alcoholic father with a ' _spare the rod_ , _spoil the child_ ' ideology. In the end, we simply never spoke about those things much. Though flawed at times, that year was as close to a blissful time as we would ever have together for a very long time afterward.

"For a seven and nine year old, what happened before the school year was over could easily cause PTSD; I was lucky, Amara... not so much.

"It might be common knowledge what happened to me - the church my mother and I were visiting was bombed, and my mother perished - but what happened to my first best friend is only known by a bare handful of people, most of whom have passed on by now; whether from natural or unnatural causes has never really concerned me. As for the events themselves… They are not mine to disclose, and so I shall not speak of them. After my mother's death, and shortly after my father adopted me, I began attending a new school; a preparatory school you might call it. It had uniforms, a great education, and a well-known sports program..." He paused, expression flashing disgusted for a moment, before continuing. "I hated it. The reason why is simple enough: I hadn't seen my best friend for months by that time, and doubted I would ever again. Of course, my father would always say that God worked in mysterious ways; I came to learn he was right. Half a year after we had last seen one another, Amara showed up at my school; she would be attending with me, in the same grade as I, if only because her previous education wasn't what the fifth grade teachers could accept. Soon enough, we were virtually joined at the hip once more, and school became bearable for both of us again.

"Less than two months after that, the final part of our trio came.

"Amara met her first and then introduced us. It felt strangely... _right_ to get to know Evelyn, or Lynn as became my nickname for her, while Amara called her Eva or sometimes Eve. In less time than we'd expected, we were fast friends. This was probably because we were all primarily something the others were not. Amara quickly became the sporty one, Evelyn the artsy, theatrical one (though she played soccer, so she and Amara could bond over that), and I was the smart one (Lynn was too, to an extent, so we banded together to help Amara). The three of us quickly designated one lunch period a week to discuss things going on in our lives; the thing I remember our being most open about was our faith. Still to this day I can't remember exactly how Evelyn defined herself, but I do know she is a Lutheran; as for Amara, she had grown up without faith of any kind, while I was quite staunch in my beliefs even then because of how I had been raised. Over the next year, Evelyn and I would work with Amara until she found God. (Our teachers took notice, and would often comment that they hadn't seen such mature eight-year-olds in quite some time).

"Eventually, Amara made a deal with us, around the beginning of summer: she would attend church with one of us each Sunday for two months if we would just get off of her back about it. Everything was going according to plan. Evelyn and I made a deal before-hand which stipulated that there would be no hard feelings between us because of which Amara picked. It was quite a good thing we were the level-headed of the group, or hard feelings would have abounded. In the end, Amara picked Catholicism; I can still remember exactly what I said to her, as we left after Mass that Sunday so long ago. I said, ' _So, I take it you've made your choice?_ ' She just shrugged and said, ' _I guess Catholicism really is what I've been missing… I think I'm going to like this whole religion thing_.'

"Time passed, as it always so unavoidably does, and before we knew quite what had happened, the three of us had turned ten and twelve respectively, and we were off to middle school. Amara was quite peeved that she would need to explain to yet _another_ school board why she was in fifth grade rather than seventh, but said she would deal with the jerks if she could stick with us. As for school itself, the three of us quickly resumed our old roles - Amara the sports star and popular with everyone; Evelyn the actress and soccer player whom everyone in the theater 'company' and on the team liked (she was still getting quite the solid B-average); and myself, the somehow-cool kid who managed to get the highest grades on every test - and life continued much as it had before. Middle school was by far the quietest years of our friendship, save for Amara's taking on more sports than anyone else could have otherwise handled, along with martial arts. When it came to the topic of who and/or what we liked, Evelyn figured out she was asexual, heteroromantic, and I came to the conclusion that I am ever-so-slightly bisexual, though only for _extremely_ feminine men. Amara didn't even touch the subject of sexuality with us until high school, though I could never figure out why. (I strongly believe that, had she at least told me before high school, much grief could have been avoided.) Though we were different as could be during middle school, our sibling-like love for one another had us irrevocably glued together.

"You ask why I said 'grief' before? The answer is so devastatingly simple, and yet, excruciatingly complex. Somehow, someway, I had fallen in love with one of my best friends. Somewhere along the way of the near seven years we had known one another, I realized at the end of eighth grade that I had fallen in love with Amara. If I had to give you a time frame, though I'm not so sure I can, there's only one that comes to mind. I fell in love with her before I even knew a thing about her. I didn't even know her name on the day she saved me, and unknowingly stole my heart. Only now, eighteen years later, have I finally gotten it back, as it turns out she never wanted it in the first place. The answer to your unspoken 'why' is, once again, excruciatingly complex, and yet devastatingly simple.

"Amara is a lesbian.

"Yet somehow, despite knowing that by the time we were sophomores, I continued to love her anyway. To diverge from the current topic, and continue my narrative, high school was a completely different ball game. Evelyn and I shared most of our classes, save for the fact that she took art/theater courses while I took theology and religion. (I wanted to know as many views as I could, so I could better minister to the congregation later in life.) As for the third member of our group, she joined us in the advanced classes only _after_ she'd had a rude wake-up call about her conflicting sports and academics. Amara picked the sports which mattered most to her, and set to have Evelyn and I ' _kick her academic ass_ ' over the summer, to quote Amara herself. Lynn and I agreed, and we thoroughly drilled the information into Amara's head, the fact that she even marginally understood Biology, Geometry, English 201, Latin II, the entirety of the Old Testament (New Testament was mandatory for sophomores, and it was assumed one had taken Old Testament the year before), and enough Ancient History to be accepted into AP European History is a testament to her mental capacity in and of itself.

"Everything went smoothly until after Christmas break of our sophomore year. Then came the worst day of my life, one cold Saturday close to the end of January. Evelyn was on a trip with the Theater Company - I _still_ don't know why it's called that - therefore, I had attended the practice for Amara's race the next weekend alone. She was Italy's first junior racer in a long time, and she was _very_ proud of that fact. Normally, I would have attended the girls' soccer games, but as Evelyn wasn't even in the country, I figured nearly freezing on one set of bleachers was the same as another, and so I went to the race track rather than the soccer field. I never expected that so much personal skill, dexterity, and precision actually went into Formula One racing; I learned _that_ when allowed to take a so-called ' _slow_ ' lap in the car with Amara. Truth be told, I've only been _that_ scared about three other times in my life. I _never_ wanted to repeat the fear from _any_ of those times, but I could see why Amara loved what she did.

"Returning to the topic at hand, after her practice was over, Amara invited me to join her for a study session/afternoon to hang out back at her apartment. (Despite her being only seventeen at the time, she owned her apartment, had her own car, and also had a full-time joy to pay for tuition because of her emancipation from her family. The details of _that_ story are messy, and once again not mine to tell, so I won't get into them.) We studied for a few hours, and then took a break for dinner, as was the norm for our group study sessions/hang out afternoons, whether the full group was present or not. After ascertaining what she should make, she headed for the kitchen. That left me to clean up our textbooks and notebooks, and left me to my thoughts. I had decided I would come clean about my feelings for her. Little did I know, she would come clean, too.

"I waited until after dinner, at which time it was unspoken tradition for our group to play Cribbage or BS for an hour or two before the other two headed home. Amara had just dealt the first hand and was waiting for me to initiate what we called the ' _begging_ ' phase, when I told her I had something to tell her. She looked slightly pale, but said she had something to tell me, too. That didn't worry me as much as it should have, as she was always - usually - confident in everything she said, even if she were wrong. We couldn't agree on who should speak first, so we resolved to spill at the same time. She said, ' _I'm a lesbian_ ,' at the same second as I blurted, ' _I'm in love with you_.'

"I felt my world begin to shatter, but it got worse only a heartbeat later. This was because she had started crying, leaned close, and kissed me. She breathed, almost _sobbed_ , ' _I'm so sorry_ ," and then she was gone. Without thinking about where she had disappeared to in her own tiny apartment, I took that as my signal - my cue, as Evelyn would have said - to leave. We never played cards that night, and broke another thing which had been an unspoken tradition - tacitly the way everything was supposed to always be. The first was our friendship - she feared on her account, I on my own.

"That was the second time she touched my life in a profound manner.

"We kept our distance for a few days afterward; God knows, we probably wouldn't have spoken for the rest of the year, if Evelyn hadn't gotten completely and totally fed up with our childish behavior. Lynn slapped sense into us that day, knocking our thick heads together for good measure, but if we listened because we were truly ashamed of our actions, or because she had wounded our pride, I'll never know. It was certainly the later case for myself on that occasion. When everything was said and done, life continued as normal. Or, rather, as normal as things could be after something like that. The next school year changed the world for us yet again. Things changed just slightly for Evelyn and I, though very much so for Amara.

"A new girl had just transferred from a very prestigious, upscale finishing school when the second week of the school year began. Her name was Michelle Kaioh, and she was everything any stuck-up rich girl would be. The three of us had made fun of her until she arrived - news traveled fast around school - and so I didn't bother to pay attention past her cold, aloof manner, her haughty prowess, or her stunning yet, I assumed, fake good looks. Of course, that was all turned upside-down when - impossibly, inexplicably - Amara took a liking to her. For one fleeting, painful, _horrible_ moment after Amara told Lynn and I that she thought she may have been falling for the new girl... For one completely insane moment - I hated Michelle. I hated her in that moment with a feeling so strong, it felt like it would consume me.

"Then the guilt, the self-loathing, and the _shame_ settled in. Putting aside whatever I may have felt in that one moment, I welcomed Michelle into the group with Evelyn, and tried to get to know her. Though we found that what she showed the world was just a mask to keep herself from being hurt, I couldn't help but still dislike Michelle. (We learned her true personality was that of a sophisticated and classy violinist, yet also an eclectic, fun-loving artist, with a dash of sports-minded swimmer thrown in.) Of course, if she really did complete Amara, and make her as happy as she seemed to, who was I to judge that? It was around then that I really began to think about what certain parts of my chosen calling would mean for me. It increased the already not-inconsiderable amount of teasing I had already been getting, but Amara and Evelyn made bearable that time around.

"The all-school retreat that year brought about some interesting developments. First and foremost, Amara and Michelle's relationship had been taken to a physical level. (Most of us did _not_ want to hear that at three a.m., and they were given a month's detention for it.) Secondly, our bonds as a group solidified, even if I couldn't help but be a bit cool with Michelle at times. Finally, something I still have yet to completely understand took place, between Evelyn and myself. It seemed accidental then, but I believe Amara had a hand in its planning. The last night before we left, at the end of that most eventful week, Lynn and I were taking a walk after dinner. We were alone because neither of us is terribly social, and because Amara and Michelle wanted time to themselves. We walked and talked and, though to this day I'm not sure how or why it happened, but we ended up sharing a kiss that night. Amara had been my first kiss, Evelyn my second. I found that there was a world of difference between the two. The first had been unexpected, unwanted, and cold. One of the most emotionally painful experienced of my life, next to the deaths of my parents. The second… I can't even begin to put it into words, but only now have I fully realized what I gave up that night.

"I told Evelyn that we couldn't engage in a relationship, least of all because of my selfish want to not know what I could never have. She said it didn't matter, we could be together even without physicality playing a role, besides the thought of _that_ at all scared her half to death anyway. I mentioned what I felt for Amara, that it would only hurt us both if I were to lead her on. Even though she smiled and laughed then, telling me that I was probably right anyway, that the whole idea had been stupid, and she wasn't Catholic anyway, so we still wouldn't have had a snowballs chance in Hell... I knew she was hurt. She said we would just stay friends, and forget about everything and things would go back to normal. She would always rant when she was feeling strong emotions. We parted and things went back to normal, save for a few awkward moments on the bus ride back, and in the following weeks. Our junior year ended, and our group sent out our completed college applications when summer started.

"We spent our senior cementing our grades, and pretty much having a blast. That year, though not for our lack of trying to stop her, was when Amara started drinking. It never got very serious, just a glass or two of whiskey or tequila at parties, or maybe wine to celebrate finishing our second-to-last set of mid-terms in high school or what not. Around that same time, my father gave me an ultimatum. I would need to give my mandatory term of military service before I would be allowed to enter seminary. When I mentioned this to the group, Evelyn and Michelle both readily admitted to having no taste for the military.

"Amara surprised all of us with her response. She said she would attend the Academy with me, as that served as attending college, but that I would be on my own for the term of service, unless of course I could convince her otherwise during the three years needed to graduate the Academy. Our choices made, the school year ended quickly after that. The group split off around the middle of that summer. Evelyn headed off to college in Madrid on a soccer scholarship; she wanted to play professionally. Michelle got on a plane bound for America; New York's Julliard Academy of the Arts had welcomed the violin prodigy with open arms. As for Amara and I, we had a few weeks of down-time before diving head-first into the rigorous physical, mental, practical, and academic curriculum of the Military Academy.

"The next three years are almost completely a blur, though some events do stand out, all of which cemented the fact that Amara and I would always be incredibly close. Always best friends. Always siblings in everything but blood. Always there when the other needed saving, be it from something as mundane as detention or as life-threatening as extreme illness. Always be by each other's side. We would always have the other's back, but we would never be anything even remotely romantic. There are three moments I remember best. The first was when we found out we would learn to fly together. She would pilot a fighter jet, as she had a knack for weapons, while I would fly a helicopter, bringing supplies and medication. Every time we were deployed - top of our class, first to be sent out of the rookies - we would always make the other swear to come back alive. We were hopeful, not stupid, after all, so we always only prayed the other would come back alive. Wounds could heal - the dead couldn't be brought back to life.

"The second thing I remember most clearly, is the one time Amara _didn't_ come back. The missions we were sent on were routine. I was to take a shipment of medicine to a designated regiment, and she was to do recon - _covert_ recon. She wasn't supposed to engage under _any_ circumstances - not unless she would be shot down otherwise. In the end, she had no choice. I was on the way back when the message came through. It was broken and fragmented by static, but I knew she had intentionally sent it to base, and to me. Base got the message itself from her words. I got that she was alive, and that she _would_ come back alive - everything else like the _when_ and the _how_ were unknown. We waited two weeks. I managed to allay Evelyn and Michelle's concerns and fears for one of those weeks. (We kept in contact via instant messaging, e-mail, and even skype if we had the time.)

"By the end of the second week, base was ready to pronounce Amara KIA or MIA; the former seemed more probable.

"Then, less than two days later, Amara showed up, unconscious, in the middle of the runway. We three found out later that she'd been shot down and had been forced to make her way back on foot, somehow miraculously surviving the explosion of her jet when it hit the ground. She'd apparently faced death a few more times on her way, but thanked her martial arts and point-blank accuracy that she was still alive, even if not completely whole. She'd lost most of her right leg when she'd inadvertently stepped on a mine; only her reflexes had kept her from losing anything more. She was fitted with a cybernetic replacement, and then taken off the service roster. Amara never seemed too bothered by losing her leg. After all, the new limb worked as well as the old one had, and she'd been honorably discharged. She'd just start her professional racing career closer to the original date than the revised plans had called for.

"That brings me to the third instance. She asked that I see her off, and so I did. As always, we parted with a hug. She said, ' _Be safe, alright?_ ' I replied, ' _So long as you are_.' That got a smirk out of her, which I was grateful for, since she had been bhaving unusually subdued since she had woken up after the surgery. Then she leaned in, and kissed me again. The she said, after that two-second tough of lips, ' _Don't stake your life or your heart on me, little brother. You know I don't like to hurt you_.' And then she left, and I felt like I was fifteen again, watching her leave after the first time she kissed me. I was twenty at the time, she twenty-two. I didn't see her again for five years.

"When my father died, I sent only two letters about it. Under normal circumstances, I would have sent three, but I couldn't know for certain exactly where Michelle would be, as her concert schedule was always much more varied that Amara's and her races, or Evelyn's and her soccer games. Whatever happened, I knew she would find out soon enough. Either Amara or Evelyn would tell her, I knew. I can't say exactly how I expected them to respond - perhaps a reply by letter, a call, an e-mail, or something of that nature - but I never expected the three of them to visit me. Amara and Michelle came a day or so before Conclave was set to begin. Evelyn arrived the evening when all the mess with the Illuminati was said and done. My oldest friend and I had a _monstrous_ fight - old wounds reopened, things said in anger - and she left in a rage. Evelyn chastised me for what happened, when I let slip that anything happened at all.

"So, my oldest friend hates me. The woman I realized too late that I loved won't have a thing to do with me until things had been smoothed over. And, for better or for worse, I have been elected Pope. That is the tale which I set out to tell you two hours ago. It details my shortcomings, my best friends, and our life in general." He shook his head, smiling sardonically. "It would serve me right if Amara showed up and gave her side to this crazy mess…" As if on cue, the aforementioned blonde strode into the room, expression like thunder and thrice as murdrous. "Speak of the Devil, and She shall appear," Patrick muttered, his soft Irish brogue lacing his words. He ignored the glare the tall racer shot him - she never had liked it when he compared her with Satan, especially given what had happened and what had been said - as she began her own tale. (Cardinal Strauss was flabbergasted and confused beyond all measure; none of this should be happening.)

"We've all always had a distinct way of telling an event. Evelyn speaks with emotion, getting side-tracked and worked up. Patrick attempts to emulate both the way Evelyn speaks and the way I do. It's stupid, but his becomes a near-perfect mesh of the two. I speak plainly, telling the facts as they are - or in this case, have been - and no more or less than that." Without further preamble, Amara began, ignoring the way the Cardinal was staring at her like she had two heads. "My mother died giving birth to me. I've always been told I look exactly like her, but no photograph nor name lends to that claim. My father was an alcoholic who took pleasure in beating me. This was because I could have been my mother's twin, and because I ' _took her_ ' from him. I never knew the woman, or anything about her, so I could never mourned or missed her. I didn't experience anything akin to love or friendship until I was nine. When I was six, my father raped for the first time. I quickly learned that only the strong survive and there was no place in my world for a little girl, so I became a boy in all but physical gender. People knew not to mess with me before I even entered second grade. I wasn't given the name ' _Trouble Tenou_ ' for nothing, after all.

"To this day, though it doesn't matter anymore, I don't now why I saved Patrick that day. Whatever the motivation, that day set me on a different life path. Annoyed by the situation as I was to begin with, I quickly learned what friendship meant. Then everything went to Hell. Patrick's mom was killed in the bombing. I would've mourned the woman who was the closest thing to a mother I had ever known had I had the time. Less than a day after that, my father nearly beat me to death, and then shot himself. I was given into the care of relatives here in Rome, and sent to therapy for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, on the advice of a social worker. Six months later, I was enrolled in a prep-school. Patrick and I were reunited, and life continued. Two months later, Evelyn dropped into our lives. She and Patrick contrived to make a Christian of me. Less than a year later, I was baptized and took First Communion. My thinking ' _I know that man on the cross. He was there the night I almost died,_ ' is the only clear thing I really remember of that time.

"Middle school was middle school. We were little fucks who thought we owned the world because we were smart, good at sports, and good at acting. Eva and Patrick were cool with their sexuality by high school. I wasn't. I hinted at mine to the family, and found myself an emancipated minor so fast my head spun. Why that didn't smack sense into me I'll never know, but it didn't. Only the threat of expulsion by the end of freshman year did. I got my shit together quick enough after that, and had Eva and Patrick kick my brainless ass into gear to boot. I came out the next January worried I'd fucked up, found out I hadn't, and somehow still broke a heart I'd never wanted to break.

"I messed around until I met Chelle. I never thought I'd meet my one because really, who would want someone so screwed up as I was? No-one, that's who - _Patrick, if you say something I will punch you in the face_. But, only after a day of knowing her, I'd somehow fallen head-over-feet before I could even blink. I haven't yet fallen out even almost ten years later. We finally did stuff right in high school, but I take no responsibility for the fact that Patrick was too damn stupid to see what he had back then in Eva, or for the fact that he kept projecting what he felt for her onto me, like a moron. The group parted ways after senior year, and this guy and I learned to fly together. I almost died a few times over, lost a leg but gained a cybernetic one, and got yanked from the service roster. Started my racing career in earnest, and settled down with Michelle in Japan. Both our fathers are Japanese, so if we went by our middle names, it was fine. Five years later, just after a race in Russia, I get a letter about the Pope's death. Freaked, I headed over to Ireland to get Michelle, and then came back here."

Cardinal Strauss had given up trying to figure out what was going on here.

"Shit went down, and Chelle and I left, fully intending never to come back. Couple days later, Eva calls, says we need to get our asses over here, since more shit's gonna go down. So, here I am, Michelle's back at the hotel, and my best friend ain't nowhere to be seen, yet." As the affronted Cardinal tried to regain his balance after that, and as Patrick attempted to smooth over ruffled feathers on Amara's behalf, the emerald-eyed woman leaned against the wall, her face carefully neutral. Her crass words and blazing eyes spoke volumes.

Moments later, Evelyn entered, flanked by regiments of the Swiss Guard.

Evelyn halted in her tracks. The Swiss Guard crisply, if not confusedly, stopped without knocking into each other or Evelyn. Her maxi skirt drew the most attention with its blood red color and black seams. Her white blouse with long, loose sleeves and a frilled collar was tucked in to the waist-high skirt and revealed her neckline pendant: the outline of a cross with a solitary stick cross branching off, all in diamonds.

"Am I late?" she asked quietly. Amara offered her a terse nod while Patrick simply stared at the men flanking her. "Then I guess it's my turn. Sir Cardinal," she acknowledged quickly, dropping into an elegant curtsy straight out of the seventeenth century, to show her, albeit Lutheran, respect. "I apologize in advance, Sir Cardinal, for my rapid speech; it's out of my control." With a nod from him - he was just going with the flow, at this point - the blonde took a deep breath and did her best to keep her eyes away from Patrick.

"This," she began, fingering her cross necklace, "began, aided, burned, and very nearly destroyed our friendship. I had attended the same school from preschool until fourth grade. My family - my mother, my father, and my two dogs - moved from the small apartment I'd grown up in into an actual house. I started attending the same school as Patrick and Amara two months into the beginning of fifth grade.

"Amara refused to allow me to keep my wallflower demeanor. She also acted as my protector; an openly religious theater geek didn't pass over well with the resident bullies. She took to calling me 'Eva' or 'Eve.' She also introduced me to Patrick, who prefers to call me 'Lynn.' He was also the person who managed to introduce Amara to God. I had attended church with her four times, at my Lutheran church, but hadn't been able to make a connection with her. Amara became a Catholic." She closed her eyes, her hands balling into fists in reaction to the Cardinal's obvious pleasure and Patrick's thinly veiled sense of victory. (If she'd ever truly wanted to punch the Irishman, ti was now.) She stared at her feet as they peeked out from beneath her skirt, clad in black wedge booties, as she projected her voice as she was taught in theater and continued her tale.

"Middle school was a quiet three years. Amara hated moving schools; she had to explain the age difference again, as well as make all the bullies fear herself and, by extension, Patrick and myself. Patrick came to terms with his being, to an extent, bisexual. I identify myself as asexual, as well as heterosexual. Asexual mans that I am not _sexually_ attracted to anyone; I simply don't have sexual thoughts. Supposedly, middle school is where my atelphobia stems from. Atelphobia is the irrational fear of never being good enough. Contrary to popular belief, atelphobia extends past romantic relationships into daily life. Anything I ever did, I felt as though it didn't live up to expectation.

"I was properly diagnosed with atelphobia Christmas break of sophomore year of high school. Sophomore year was also when Amara came out and when Patrick and Amara kissed." Evelyn kept a steady gaze on her feet, and realized both that her knees were clattering and that tears were beginning to blur her vision. Taking a deep breath, she gripped a handful of her skirt and soldiered forward. "Following the kiss, they were so awkward around each other, it was unbearable. They refused to admit what had passed until Patrick let it slip out on accident. I literally slapped them both and told them to get over it. When they realized that they were affecting me, they stopped mopping and things went back to normal. Amara ran cross country and track for our school and took private martial arts lessons. Patrick didn't really have any extra curricular activities, so he attended all our events. I was a member of both the Theater Company and the girls' varsity soccer team.

"Junior year brought the most change while we were all together. Junior year is when Michelle transferred to our school. Despite her cold, spoiled, somewhat bitchy mask, she's actually artistic, fun-loving, and probably the classiest person I know. She's a violinist and a swimmer. She fit perfectly into our group, though Patrick was cold towards her for the first little while. Amara quickly fell for her, though she admitted it a week after the fact - Amara and I read each other very well. I instantly liked her and my trust - which is very difficult to earn and fragile - slowly but surely followed.

"The all-school retreat that year offered development for two different relationships. The first chronologically is that of Amara and Michelle; they'd been dating for about three weeks by this time. During the retreat, the physicality of their relationship began to mature." Evelyn allowed herself a short brief laugh and looked up to address the Cardinal fully, as he was the one who hadn't lived the friendship. "I'm often reminded of a line in the musical _The Drowsy Chaperone:_ 'Robert and I met on the lido deck of the _Ile de France_. He amused me with stories of his father's oil interests. We spooned, briefly, and then he proposed.' They had that same predestined physical attraction that took the emotions along for the ride." After a beat, she hastily added, "Not to say that they're not in love. Not at all. I simply mean to say that the physicality started it. I've never seen two people more in love than Amara and Michelle."

She took a deep breath and collected herself before she continued. "The second relationship that changed was the one I shared with Patrick." The definite past tense wasn't lost on Patrick; he wanted to look away, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. In truth, he'd never been able to, but had only realized - admitted? - it when it was far, _far_ too late. "It was the last night of the retreat. Most people were diving off the high-dive, ganging up to shove teachers in, or doing other pool-related activities. Since Amara is afraid of water, she and Michelle went off on their own. Patrick and I went for a walk; neither of us wanted to risk being shoved into the pool. Then, suddenly, our conversation trickled to a stop and he leaned down and kissed me.

"It just felt so _right_.

"I'll never understand how people can describe a kiss. Before you've had your first kiss, you can't even begin to fathom the feeling of it. Even after you've kissed ' _the one_ ,' words fail to capture the sheer emotional content of that kiss. The two words that _he_ chose to use to describe our kiss were ' _a_ ' and ' _mistake_.' I rambled on and on about how I didn't need - correction: didn't _want_ \- the physicality of a relationship and how it had actually been a _stupid_ idea and how I was Lutheran, so it wouldn't have worked out and so on and so forth... I cried myself to sleep that night." She took a deep breath. "I fell asleep on the bus and, apparently, so did Patrick. We woke up sprawled across the two-person seat with our arms around each other. It was simple moments like that that made things difficult for a while, but eventually everything went back to normal.

"Senior year was a difficult one to face. It was our last year all together for who knew how long. Michelle was going to Julliard's in New York the next year to become a concert violinist. I was going to _el Universidad Complutense de Madrid_ in Madrid, Spain to - hopefully - join Spain's women's national football team. Patrick and Amara were joining the military. While the two of them were away, I didn't care how safe they insisted they were, I prayed like there was no tomorrow. They were having fun, I suppose, learning to fly and whatnot, but it wasn't contagious enough. Their well-being was always there in the back of my mind. The way that they made the other swear to come back made me feel a bit better, I guess, since the both of them were always _deadly_ serious about swears." She allowed herself a brief smile, beginning to fidget with her necklace. "But then the news of Amara's -" She hesitated, searching for the right word or phrase. "Near-death experience, I guess," she decided, "came.

"Michelle was in pieces, trying to figure out how she could get over to where they were. I was forced to stay where I was and focus on school and football; my coach was concerned because I wasn't playing like I normally was. My art in school started getting darker and, honestly, more psychological-thriller style. I became a different person than I had ever been before while she was missing. She finally showed up, and my art changed to this uneasy phase of healing. It was an interesting time for all of us; this was the first time anything of this size had ever happened to one of us. None of us were sure how to respond. Amara triumphed over it with flying colors. Patrick never fully opened himself to exploring how he felt about it; he was so deeply preoccupied with keeping Michelle at bay, who was obviously in pieces. I had no clue where I was. My friends said that I was empty during that time, that I was a shell of my former self. Eventually, we all fell into our old easy pattern.

"I got the letter and wasn't able to get straight out - I had a soccer game that I couldn't wiggle out of. I came when I could; I was only a day and a half - cumulatively fifty or so hours - after Amara and Michelle arrived. He was _unbelievably_ jumpy when I talked to him. He obviously wasn't focused on my being there. I found out later why. Amara and Michelle are getting married and, Patrick's being a priest, they wanted him to preside over their ceremony. He declined, most likely due to his still-present infatuation with Amara, and to say the least, she was hurt. To cover it up, she started joking and teasing - it's a habit we share. Patrick took her seriously and, to put it gently, took _her_." Evelyn blushed immensely as she screwed her eyes shut to prevent her tears.

Immediately, a chaotic uproar began all at once. When she opened her eyes again, the tears were gone as she responded to the situation by switching into captain mode. First off, she needed everyone's attention. "Hey!" she shouted, trying to be heard above the commotion. "Hey!" she tried again, this time cupping her hands around her mouth. Rolling her eyes at the continued noise, she slipped the thumb and index finger of her right hand into her mouth and created a high, piercing whistle. Once she finally had everyone's attention, she calmly stated "Everyone, shut the fuck up." She closed her eyes and grimaced for a moment. She mouthed an apology to the Cardinal before soldiering forward once more. "That action is not ours to judge nor to punish. It's up to Amara and Patrick and, ultimately, God to forgive." She turned to the Guard members and said something in Swiss; she'd always had an affinity for languages. The Swiss Guard all saluted crisply before leaving. Evelyn too said her good-byes before leaving, throwing one last desperate gaze towards Patrick and one "don't-even-think-about-doing-something-stupid" near glare towards Amara. Both accepted their respective gaze with a nod. Evelyn exited, withdrawing herself, and Patrick immediately focused on soothing the poor Cardinal.

* * *

Although it could be considered blasphemous by some people, he had to admit that being in the confessional was somewhat an entertaining experience. One could learn so much about a person just by the sins they say they committed that past week and the way they said it. Some people would make a large fuss about having done simple, unavoidable things and others simply tossed out rather drastic things as if they were nothing. Of course, it got quite tedious and boring when the last fifteen minutes rolled around; not that he didn't love being a priest that was the farthest thing from the truth. It was simply beginning to get old to have to slide the screen door on either side of him as he heard penitents exit and a new one enter; his elbows were beginning to complain.

 _I'm not_ that _old_ , he thought to himself as he closed the screen door to his right and opened the one to his left. His hand, in a rather awkward position, froze when he heard the voice drift through the thin cloth.

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," he heard the soft voice whisper, while the silhouette through the lacey fabric performed the sign of the cross. He didn't have a chance to speak before the voice began again. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," the woman - though one would have been hard-pressed to know that, by voice alone - said in a sure voice, though still barely above a whisper. He quickly made the sign of the cross on himself before lowering his arm and deciding, already, what the owner of the voice's penance would be. "It has been two days since my last confession." He blanched; she'd been gone for _months_! He then remembered that she'd probably been to the confessional just before she'd come to see him. He had reminded her that she could speak above a whisper when he visited her in his office. "I accuse myself of the following sins. I purposely led a man to commit adultery both in heart and body. I, too, have committed adultery in body. I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life."

"To pay for your sins, you must say the Act of Contrition and wait outside the Cathedral for me," he said in a whisper.

"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all, because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen."

"Give thanks to the Lord for He is good," he said, trying to stand up in the small space.

"His love endures forever," she finished, standing up as well. They both exited the confessional and exited the reception area. She continued outside the Cathedral, but stopped outside the door, sticking out with her white jeans, white button-up open over a black tank top, and black lace-up combat boots. He, however, retreated to the robbing room and quickly shed his priestly garb, hanging it up with care and locking up behind him. He walked out of the Cathedral and stood before her, unsure of how to start the _incredibly_ awkward conversation.

"It's not your fault, you know," he finally stated. She looked up at him in surprise and began to open her mouth in protest before he plowed forward. Ugh, _plowed_ \- he hated that word sometimes. "If I hadn't made the brash, inappropriate joke, nothing would have happened."

"It's my fault, too, though," she insisted. "If I hadn't teased you or continued to imply things, nothing would have happened either."

"We're both at fault, then," he stated plainly after a moment's pause. She nodded, not saying anything.

"I wasn't serious when I said that I'd never forgive you," she finally whispered. "I said it at the time because I was hurt and confused. I don't have it in my heart to lose my best friend, no matter _how_ fucked up what happened was." She offered him a tentative smile. He then stepped forward and hugged her and she answered quickly. He sighed quietly over her shoulder. Even if _she_ could forgive _him_ , _he_ 'd never be able to forgive _himself_. Especially because of the feelings that he'd discovered driving his actions. Life was never simple for him; he also couldn't begin to wonder why it hated him... Wait, scratch that, he knew well why it hated him, he just wondered why it was holding a grudge… And _maybe_ he should stop asking pointless questions he already knew the answers to…

It wouldn't get him anywhere, after all.

* * *

 **Hey, it's Evelyn. This chapter was difficult to write for me simply because there's so much past to look back on and to commentate on everything… It was a challenge for both of us. It's a lot of useful information, though, with details that will come to light in this story and the next. Don't complain about how the forgiveness was rushed or anything. You try staying mad at someone this close to you and come back and tell us how long you managed to stay mad at them. The extremity of the action is balanced by the extremity of the friendship. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but: The next few chapters are going to be a bit more uplifting than this one. It's always darkest before dawn, though. Also! Don't complain this chapter wasn't necessary. It's over ten thousand words _that you will need_ as this story progresses. See you next time!**


	6. Asking for One More Chance

**Another "in story" one-shot. This one and the next will be taking place during the empty gap of "months" mentioned in the end of the previous chapter.**

 **Oh, and one more thing. Patrick's Papal Title? Not mine either. XD That belongs to the author** _ **Moonstone Glows**_ **.**

* * *

 _The sun was warm and the breeze was cool; the sky was cloudless and the grass was green; it was exactly what a summer day in Italy should have been. Three children – two nine and one eleven by the look of them – ran about the meadow. Two were blonde; one was brunette. Two appeared to be boys; in truth two were girls. They had become fast friends, and though the boy of their group, with his curly brown-gold hair and eager smile, wasn't quite as sporty as the two girls, they all got along famously. The three appeared to be playing tag, and having the grandest time. Though all three were Italian by some measure of blood, their words were accented differently._

" _Hey, c'mon you two! Just because I'm older doesn't mean I'm automatically faster!" The taller blonde laughed as she ran, her words tinged slightly by her Japanese accent, which in and of itself had a touch of an English accent as well. She was tall for her age, with short-cropped blonde hair and emerald green eyes. She wore ratty jeans, an over-sized t-shirt, and tatty converses of indeterminable color. Her hair was cut just as raggedly as her clothes were worn, giving the impression that she had chopped it off herself at some point, and she was the only one who cared to keep it short._

" _That's_ so not fair _, Mara!" The shorter blonde complained, as she ran after her taller counterpart. "You're taller, so you have longer legs! And besides that – agh!" Her words were cut off by her squeal of both horror and delighted laughter. Her nationality stated itself as the most Italian, though a touch of Spanish was in her voice as well. Her delighted shriek had originated from the fact that she was tackled by the final member of the group. Rolling away, she brushed shoulder-length, nearly white-blonde hair from her face, blinking her ice-blue eyes innocently at her assailant, the skirt of her white daisy-printed sundress askew about her leggings and white sandals. "And besides," she finished, smiling and blushing, "there's only one 'it' in tag. Right, Patrick?"_

 _The third and final member of the group, Patrick, quickly rolled back to his feet, smiling down at her. His stormy grey-blue eyes smiled right along with him, as he hurriedly dusted off his khaki shorts and dark green polo shirt. "Quite right, Lyn," he said, a smirk that looked more at home on Mara's lips quirking his own. (In truth, the girl in question's proper name was Amara.) "There is only one 'it'… which is why I'm not sorry about my not helping you up!" And he ran off after Amara. Lyn, smiling ruefully, stood swiftly, and then raced after her friends._

" _I'm_ so _going to catch both of you this time!" Lyn – Evelyn – called out joyously, as she dashed after the other two._

" _I'd like to see you try!" Amara and Patrick called the gently-teasing taunt at the same moment, their different-aged-and-separated-at-birth-twin telepathy coming into play. This set all three laughing once more. If one listened, one would have picked up on Patrick's Irish accent, which was slightly stronger than those of either girl._

" _Oh, I will! Don't worry too much about_ that _!"_

 _Their laughter and shouts of joy colored the warm air of the summer afternoon._

Grey-blue eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the pale light of dawn. He breathed cautiously for a few moments, and then chided himself for such. Though it had been a week since he his ribs had been declared fully healed, the five months between had trained him well to be wary of breathing too hard too fast. That thought froze him for a moment, before he made himself get up and begin his day. First, he needed a shower. As he removed his sleeping robes and folded them, he couldn't help but muse on the dream he had had, and supposed that that was _because_ it had been five months already. Five months in which he hadn't heard at all from either Amara or Michelle, and had received only occasional calls from Evelyn when her games permitted.

But, really, it wasn't hard to figure out. His heart longed for simpler times, and his subconscious responded to this, having him dream a memory. He finished his shower quickly, still pointedly avoiding looking at the scar the brand had left on his chest, and then dressed in his white cassock and robes. This morning, after that dream, the gold cross seemed to be a bit heavier than normal, but he brushed it off. He had a day to prepare for, not to mention Latin High Mass to be ready for later that day. His breakfast was simple fare, and consumed quickly enough (but not quickly enough to make him sick; he'd made that mistake enough times in high school to know that he would be in pain all the rest of the day if he ate too fast), after which he withdrew to his prayer room.

Patrick – or Michael I as he was now officially known – remained there for one hour, praying for guidance in the day ahead of him, and for forgiveness of the sins he knew only God could ever forgive. He also prayed for the strength to carry those sins. Once the hour had elapsed, he emerged into his office, noting that his secretary had already dropped off the day's paperwork. With a soft sigh that was equal parts resignation and contentment – he still felt as if he were being pulled in all different directions at times, but he did at times also enjoy what he did – he seated himself behind the desk, and began his work. For the moment, he put thoughts of his childhood, and of his two best friends (if he still had the right to call them that, of course, given what he had done, and given that they had both been much more than mere friends to him, at different times of their lives), out of his mind.

He had a world of Catholics to lead, and found it ironic that the document atop the pile on his desk concerned a trip he would be making in the next two months or so to Spain. It seemed even his work wanted to remind him of what he was so completely sure he had lost. The catch here was that he would be making a small, personal trip to the Canary Islands, right after his official papal visit to Spain.

Depending on what kind of reception he received, he knew he would be asking – _begging_ – for one more chance; he knew he didn't deserve it by any means, but he had to try all the same.


	7. We Will Meet Again Soon, My Love

**Second of the fillers for the gap of "months."**

 **Disclaimer: The** **play** _ **Romeo and Juliet**_ **is copyright to Shakespeare.  
**

 **Warning: This chapter alludes to a member of the clergy - the Pope - being in a romantic (though non-sexual) relationship.**

* * *

He looked out at the sky and the sea, and couldn't help thinking that he knew a pair of eyes much bluer than the sky, and much deeper than the sea. However, he also knew that they could be just as cold as the sky, and as unfathomable as the sea. He loved those eyes, and the woman to whom they belonged; he would admit it, even if it were blasphemous, sacrilegious, and sinful to do so. And the last time he had seen those eyes, the look they had cast him had been desperate, pleading – almost begging.

"…I trust this is acceptable, your Holiness?"

For a moment, he saw those blue eyes – and then he was once more in the present, his own grey-blue eyes snapping open from where they had been closed. He looked about in almost paranoid fashion, but quickly hid this action. Oh, yes, right… He was in a Vatican jet, flying to Spain, and his _Camerlengo_ , former Cardinal Strauss, was both looking concerned and irritable. It was clear that he wished for an answer to his question, but was also slightly worried that the young Pope hadn't been listening at all. The grey-blue-eyed male cleared his throat a bit, and spoke in reply, slightly embarrassed.

"Ah, yes, sorry…" His expression was apologetic. "Please, repeat your question; my thoughts must have been elsewhere."

Strauss regarded him for a moment. "In a purely confidential sense, though not a confessional one, your Holiness…" The elder man began speaking, but then paused, seeming to rethink his choice of words. "In such a sense, _Patrick_ ," the use of the young Pope's real first name rather than his title set a completely different mood, "are you… sleeping alright?" The irritation had vanished, and now only the concern remained. Patrick knew that Strauss knew he had had sleeping problems since childhood, but the brunette didn't know how to respond just then.

A pause; a momentary beat of silence. He swallowed. "Why… Why does that concern…?" He couldn't fully figure out what he wished to say, and hoped that the elder man would understand his meaning.

It seemed that his _Camerlengo_ did. "For one, Patrick, it is my job, if you will, to know. For another… I know your sins weigh heavily upon your soul, and that things you have done trouble you greatly. You do not fully believe you are ready – let alone _worthy_ – for the office which you have had placed upon your shoulders. I can read it in your eyes."

Patrick drew in a breath, a jolt of shock rocking him to his core. _I can read it in your eyes…_ If Strauss could read just that much, then what _else_ …? Oh, dear God, as the one to play Devil's Advocate for him, Strauss already knew all of the atrocities he had committed, save only his involvement in the Illuminati threat seven months ago, but this… _This_ was far, _far_ too much… Unknown to the young Supreme Pontiff, he had gone pale. All the blood had drained from his face, and his knuckles were white as the robe and cassock he wore, from the force with which he gripped the arm-rests of the seat in which he sat.

Seeing his rather obvious distress, Strauss placed a caring but firm hand upon the twenty-five-year-old's shoulder. Patrick rallied his emotions around the presence of that hand like a rock amid the turbulent sea. The two locked eyes for a moment. Troubled grey-blue met brown just as firm yet caring as that hand.

"It is not a sin to _love_ , Patrick," he intoned quietly. And then his voice gained a touch of warning. "But it can very easily _become_ a sin, I am sorry to say, based upon what you _do_ with that love."

Those words haunted the young Pope for the duration of his visit to Madrid, and most on the plane to the Canary Islands.

* * *

Hiding in plain sight; he thanked Amara for the skills to do such. With his now-usual white robe and cassock exchanged for the black of a priest, and with a trench coat over that and a nondescript black baseball-cap-like hat upon his head, he looked just like any other civilian. With the information networks at his disposal, he had managed to discover what hotel the person that he had come to see was staying at, what room they were in, and for how long they would be here. That was why he had planned his trip the way he had; his Official Papal Visit to Madrid had taken place once he knew the said person was already _in_ the Canary Islands, and as such, wouldn't know that he was even within the country. It may have all seemed convoluted, childish, and just plain _stupid_ at points, but he would be the first to admit he wasn't completely thinking clearly when he had planned all of this out…

Shoving the unneeded thoughts from his mind, Patrick focused upon his goal. The hotel, he had found, wasn't too pricey or upscale, but it did offer beautiful views – from the rooms with balconies, of course. Room #247 had just one such balcony, and he would put it to use. He was almost dreading what kind of reaction he would receive, but he knew backing out now would be nothing short of cowardly and, again, stupid. He had come all this way and planned everything out, so he might as well see it through to the end… whatever _that_ may have been. That thought in mind, and once he knew the person he would be speaking to was on said balcony, he positioned himself below, and began to speak.

He just begged God that he hadn't forgotten _too_ much of the Spanish he had learned in school, and that this friend of his had taught him… He also hoped that he hadn't forgotten the voice projection he had also been taught. Of course, there was less chance of _that_ than the former, considering how many Masses a week he performed, and for how many people. He knew he already looked the fool enough… Anything _else_ and he would be too ashamed to show his face again for at least the next _year_.

" _But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, oh, it is my love! Oh that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that? Her eye discourses, I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, as daylight doth a lamp. Her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright, that birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! Oh that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!_ "

For a moment, the blonde woman to whom he was speaking froze, her ice-blue eyes darting down to where he stood. She was quite visibly shocked and frightened for a moment, and then her eyes widened, a sound something like a squeak issuing from her lips. The hat he had worn was removed, and the trench coat he wore was pulled open just enough to show the closed, clerical collar at his throat. Grey-blue and ice-blue locked for a moment, and then she was gone, whirling around so quickly that her now-shoulder-blade-length pale blonde hair fanned out around herself. He next saw her a few moments later, her face flushed, as she rushed out the doors which lead to the outdoor pool. She came up to a stop, just a foot from him, and simply looked at him. The expression on her face held just a touch of fury, but what unnerved him, was the fact that he couldn't read her eyes.

And _then_ the moment was broken when she slapped him.

The action came so hard and fast, that he didn't even bother to defend himself from the blow. Well, not that he _would_ have, of course. He knew he deserved that slap, and so very much more for all the grief that he had caused. Then, suddenly, she was hugging him, a bit of warm wetness seeping through the shoulder of the cassock he wore, indicating that she was crying. Gently pulling back a bit, he found that he had been correct in assuming this. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were wet with tears. He gently cupped her cheeks in his hands, softly wiping the still-flowing tears with his thumbs. Leaning close, the pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Hey, no more crying, alright Lyn?" He murmured softly, offering her a small, hesitant smile once he had pulled back again. It wasn't the benevolent one had had _crafted_ over the past months, but a _real_ smile. Real in that it was just a _touch_ broken, and showed the weight his actions had placed upon his _mind_ and his _heart_.

She nodded, wordless, before hugging him once more. Then, grasping his hand in her own, she lead him inside and up to her hotel room. They talked the night through, their hands always remaining clasped, as they sat on her bed. And though he was gone by morning, they both felt all the better for the reconciliation. For Patrick, that night had lifted some of the weight he had carried for over half a year, and began healing some of the wounds he had inflicted – both upon _himself_ and upon their _friendship_.

As for Evelyn, well, her joy was boundless when she found the small note on her bedside table when she awoke.

 _Nos reuniremos de nuevo pronto, mi amor…_

* * *

 **The passage that Patrick recites is the first part of Romeo's speech in Act 2 Scene 2 of the play** _ **Romeo and Juliet**_ **, commonly referred to as "The Balcony Scene." The last line of the story is the title in Spanish.**


	8. Difference Between Wanting and Needing

**(A/N: Something short and sweet, this time to fill in the gap of ten years. It was inspired by the song "Wanted You More," by Lady Antebellum, but you don't need to listen to that to understand this.**

 **Warning: Allusions to a member of the clergy being in a romantic (but not sexual) relationship.)**

* * *

They had grown up together. She had come into his life later than Amara, it was true, but that didn't mean that their friendship had been any less real. For the longest time, she had been the one he had turned to, when in need of advice or just someone to vent to – _especially_ when it wasn't really something he would have been comfortable talking to his Father about. He would have gone to Amara, but she was very… _intense_ , when it came to issues involving her friends. Evelyn was collected and level-headed; he could always count on her to give him sound guidance, or even just an attentive ear. That fact never changed, even when the feelings between them did. Eleventh grade nearly shattered their friendship, but somehow they held strong; outsiders would have said it became even _stronger_ , but no-one outside of their circle know the truth. (Well, _now_ one other person knew, but he would never breath a word.)

She had been as surprised as any, when he had come to find her during her brief trip to the Canary Islands. Actually, she had been _more_ than surprised – she had been _angry_. But, she never could hold a grudge, least of all against him. They had been best friends since they were children; holding a grudge against him would have been like trying to remove her right hand with a spoon. Impossible. Of course, she _had_ given Patrick a good sound slap for his troubles; if anyone had found them, _then_ where would they be? She had never liked secrecy, but in this case, it was the only way they could function in any sort of relationship that was beyond friendship. And it was a relationship she had been trying to deny she wanted since they were in high school. There wasn't anything sexual to it, but even so… they doubted that anyone would have understood, had they been inclined to try to explain it at all. The people that mattered understood, and that was that.

They had grown up together. They had been friends for almost twenty years. But none of that meant that they understood their hearts where the other was concerned. Patrick spent most of his life believing that he was in love with Amara. Evelyn spent the same amount of time telling herself that they didn't have to be together. In the end, it took them nearly being separated forever for them to figure it out. He nearly died, and then was elevated from a mere priest to the highest office in all of Christendom. She was a professional at what she did, and too stubborn to admit that she loved him more every day. But somehow, they found their way together again. Secrecy was involved, and on paper, they could never be more than friends. Nothing ever deterred them. He took short personal holidays (never more than a few days) every so often. She visited Rome whenever her schedule permitted. They talked whenever they could. It was hard, but they made it work.

He remembered a time, back in their second year of high school, when they had been alone for a weekend. Amara had been gone for a track meet hosted by another school; everything else seemed to have conspired to give them some time alone together. Her parents were away for work; his Father was gone for the same reason. They may have been too old, but they arranged a sleepover despite that fact. Neither of them liked being alone, unlike the third of their trio, who seemed to thrive on it at times. (Michelle hadn't yet arrived to complicate their lives by that time.) He knew what she wanted to do, to be, to strive for, and she knew that he was devoted to his calling even then. And yet, they still spent hours camped out on her living room floor, talking about it like they had ever broached the subject before. If he had to say when something changed between them – before the disastrous kiss the next year – it would have been that night. It was then he began to wonder if his feelings were for the racer, or the actress.

She had spent years loving him, quietly. She had spent years watching him love Amara. That night was when she had begun to hope. That night was when she had first _let_ herself hope. Between then and the next year when they kissed, she hoped more fervently than she had ever hoped for anything before. Despite that, nothing seemed to change – at least, not between them. As relationships changed around them, they remained stagnant. Amara and Michelle got together. Patrick seemed to accept that he would never have a chance with Amara. And yet, she and he remained the same, still just friends. Not that she would ever think to discount their friendship; on the contrary, it was one of the strongest bonds she had ever forged with anyone. But that didn't change the fact that a tiny part of her heart wanted them to be more. Even though he was set on becoming a priest. Even though they would likely not see each other for a very long time, once their high school days were over and done with. Still, she tried.

Time passed. Things remained the same between them. She took the world of women's football by storm. He did his military service (they nearly lost Amara in the process) and then became a priest. For five years, things remained the same. But then suddenly, everything was different. His Father was dead. The Catholic Church threatened to crumble in on itself. He had nearly destroyed their best friend. The Church had her new leader, her warrior – him. And once the dust had settled from everything changing, they had come out different, too. He found her where she least expected it, and they worked things out. She was wary at first, but he showed her the kind of loyalty she supposed she could never have found anywhere else but in a priest. At the very least, his heart never turned away from her, once he finally got it through his head that he had loved her all along. Years passed quietly; they made it work, somehow.

She looked up at him one day. It had been five years since everything had changed between them. Five years of being just friends to everyone who wouldn't understand. Five years of clandestine meetings buried in miles of excuses, both legitimate and fabricated. Five years of quietly loving him, and knowing that he loved her in return. Truthfully, it seemed like not much had changed with them, even though everything had. Anyone who knew anything about football knew her name; anyone who kept even half an ear on world news knew his. Amara and Michelle rarely spoke to them, and saw them even less; birthdays and holidays were warm but awkward. They had been together for five years, but had never gone any farther than stealing a few kisses and holding hands when and where no-one could see. She didn't want intimacy, and his devotion to God would always prevent him for letting himself want it. After five years of ups and downs, she looked up at him one day, and realized something.

"Patrick?"

"Hm? What is it, Lyn?"

"I may not _need_ you to be happy, but I'll always _want_ you with me."

"…You are a strange woman, my dear."

"True, but you love me anyway."

"That I do, sweetheart; that I do."

With heels she fit snugly under his chin, and there was nowhere else she would rather be at that moment.


	9. Promising Futures and Haunting Pasts

**Okay, so, here's Part VIII. Not much else to say here, other than we make a HUGE time jump, and things start to get a _little_ crazy.**

 **Warning: More allusion to and finally confirmation of a member of the clergy - the Pope - being in a romantic (though non-sexual) relationship. Also, mentions of/allusions to rape and it's aftermath.**

* * *

 _To Miss Maria Tenou -_

 _This letter is inform you that you have been accepted to Oxford University's Summer Football Program for Youth. Out of our largest pool of entries yet, you displayed a passion for the sport, and a talent realized while not fully developed. You are the type of youth this program is designed for; you will be working alongside Oxford University's own Rebecca Dawson and the guest coach, Evelyn Steele from Spain's national women's team._

 _There will be a follow-up letter from OUSFPY with specific information about dates, travel, and what to bring. This letter is primarily to let you know that you've been accepted._

 _I look forward to meeting you._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Lord Patten_

 _Chancellor of Oxford University_

 **\- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

"All right, everybody!" Evelyn called, drawing the attention of the twenty-five girls at the camp. In the past ten years, nothing much had changed with her. She hadn't grown taller, she hadn't changed all that much physically. She'd had a few crushes, but no serious boyfriends. (After all, no-one else could _quite_ match up to the one man that held her heart.) Her hair was now longer, back to the waist-length it was before she'd gotten onto Spain's national women's team. Otherwise, she was still the fun-sized, lean, blonde-haired, ice blue-eyed, dorky, artistic soccer player she'd always been.

The summer program had been going on for a month, now, and she was still having loads of fun. With all the pressure of being a professional player, it was occasionally easy to be lost in the stress and wear-and-tear of the sport. With the summer programs that she participated in, like this one, she got back to the basics and saw the simply joy that the sport could bring. Really, that's all that she needed at the moment. She'd been go, go, go for too long; it was time to simply kick a ball in a circle. As she waited for the girls to all gather together, she brought a soccer ball into the cradle of her foot and simply held it there, adjusting her foot as necessary to prevent it from falling out.

This was the second best part of soccer for her. The first part was the sport itself; after all, if she didn't love the sport, why on earth would she be doing what she was going? But the simplicity of the sport was a close second. She could go onto the field and go full autopilot. It didn't help that her autopilot was completely in Spanish – her second language – but autopilot was fun to run around on anyway.

"Everyone needs to grab a partner," she announced, setting the ball down and placing her hands on her hips. "We're going to work on some passing drills, then we'll move on to trapping." All the girls groaned, dragging their feet to grab a ball and partner. "Stop complaining! The sooner you girls prove to me you can do these, the sooner we get to a scrimmage." Immediately, all the girls perked up and rushed to get to work.

 **\- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

Grey-green eyes watched, as the other girls worked on mock matches. It had been four weeks since the start of the camp, but she had already learned more than she had in a year of training with her school/club team. Of course, currently she was on the bench, ice on a rather badly sprained ankle. She brushed some of her chin-length blonde hair back behind her ear, and sighed. The ten year old, who was rather tall for her age, started slightly when one of the two coaches, Evelyn Steele, took a seat beside her on the bench.

"Sorry if I startled you," Evelyn said with a smile, her own blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail. "How's your ankle doing, Maria?" There was true concern in the elder blonde's ice-blue eyes.

The girl, Maria, merely looked at her for a moment. "It's doing alright," she finally allowed. Unbeknownst to the pre-teen, she looked just like her mother usually did, when she didn't wish to divulge a weakness.

Of course, Maria didn't know the woman, so she couldn't have known that. She had lived with her aunt, Anna, for as long as she could remember. (Okay, _technically_ Anna was her mother's cousin, but none of the Tenou women cared about that.) She had pictures of her mother (a tall woman with short-cropped sandy hair, which Maria had inherited, and unreadable emerald green eyes), but she had never seen the woman in person.

They had spoken on the phone a few times, but that had been the extent of any contact they had ever had. Maria understood that her mother was a busy woman, and that she didn't really have the time for a child or to keep much contact, but that didn't change the fact that it hurt. The only thing she had from her mother was the cross she never removed. In all truth, though, it wasn't the first one she had owned. The first, she could only vaguely remember, and knew best from photographs.

Maria was snapped back to reality by Evelyn's waving a hand in front of her face.

"Hello," the coach drew out the 'o,' "anyone home? Earth to Maria."

The girl blinked, shaking her head. "Oh, sorry; lost in thought…"

Evelyn nodded, a peculiar expression on her face, one which Maria had gotten to know well by now. The two had grown close over the past three weeks, and the younger blonde had come to be able to read her coach fairly well. Not that the older woman ever really tried to hide anything, it was just the principle of the matter. "Yes, so I noticed. Gosh, you really do look like…"

"A very good friend of yours, I know, so you've told me," Maria answered, smirking a bit. The quirk of her lips only heightened the resemblance Evelyn was seeing, but it wasn't to the friend one would have assumed. The ten year old then quirked a brow in question, musing, "Say, Coach, who is this friend of yours, anyways…?" Her expression may have been innocent enough, but her eyes were slightly dark, almost… calculating, somehow. The ice-blue-eyed woman brushed it off and answered.

"You might know him, actually… Well, _of_ him, at least." She grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "His name's Patrick McKenna, but you probably know him as Michael I."

Evelyn had to stifle a giggle at Maria's reaction; the girl's mask of calm had fallen, and her eyes had all but bugged out of her head. "Y-You know the Pope?!" The younger girl's shock was both palpable and easily read. "And on a first-name basis, too… Damn," she whistled softly. "Coach, that just moved you up five more notches on the cool scale for me… Wow…"

It seemed that she had been completely floored by the revelation, and was having a hard time getting her emotions and expressions back under control. Once she had regained herself, Maria spoke again. "That's really cool, to know someone like that so well… I don't know anyone like that, though I _suppose_ my aunt is pretty cool… And, from what little I know, my mother is, too." Her mask was back in place; only her eyes showed how much it hurt that she could only guess at even that about her mother.

Evelyn responded to it right away, her mothering instinct flaring to life. "What do you mean, from what little you know?" Her curiosity mixed with her concern.

Maria regarded her blankly for a moment. Then she spoke. Her voice was cold and clipped. "I've never _met_ my mother, Coach, and only spoken to her a few times on the phone. She is a _very_ busy woman, and does not have time for me. I _fully_ understand that."

The older woman's mothering instinct cried out in anguish, but she held it at bay. "And… your father?" She knew it may have been rude to ask, and she also knew she was pushing her luck, considering how cold Maria was with everyone else, but she felt the need to know.

Once more, she received that same blank look, before the girl responded. "I know nothing of the man who fathered me."

And that did it. Evelyn reached over and hugged the girl. However, Maria pushed away gently, her smile rather obviously fake, and meant to hide the pain in her eyes from that action. "Hey, now, Coach, I don't want to be ganged up on by the other girls, and you can't be seen to show favoritism, now can you?" The last was a teasing deterrent, the slightly taller blonde could see that plain as day, but she allowed it. It seemed she had touched a place in Maria's soul that the girl didn't want anyone near.

Evelyn laughed a bit, even if it, too, was obviously fake. "You're right, that would be bad. Sorry for putting you in that place for a minute, Maria."

A moment or so passed, and the tension eased again. An impish smile was suddenly tugging at the younger blonde's lips, as she raised a hand to cup at the side of her mouth. "Hey, Coach, you know what?"

Evelyn raised both eyebrows, glad for the little game of fake-conspiratory intentions. "Hm? What?"

The impish smile broadened, but never reached grey-green eyes. "About your friend, His Holiness… Since I was born in the same year he was elected, sometimes," she blushed just a tiny bit, "sometimes I call him my Pope, my Father."

This struck the older woman. Oh how similar they truly were… She covered this with a mischievous smile of her own. "And do you know what, little Maria?"

"What?" A quick pause, then – "Hey! I'm so not little! I'm almost as tall as you are!"

Evelyn merely laughed softly, choosing not to comment upon the younger blonde's height. "Sometimes, I call him that, too; my Pope, my Patrick."

She was _very_ glad when Maria didn't seem to catch the implication that statement made.

 **\- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

The rest of the camp was a huge success. Maria made a full recovery and went on to impress Evelyn more and more with each step. She also lessened the similarity she held to Patrick for Evelyn with each step; Patrick wasn't athletic, and wasn't particularly coordinated either. This graceful, tall, talented soccer player couldn't possibly be anything like Patrick. But, off the field, there was a raised eyebrow here, a cunning smirk there, and the similarities hit her in the face like a ton of bricks. It was fascinating.

"Since it's your birthday," Evelyn prompted as she stood with Maria in the airport, "I have something for you." Evelyn had promised Maria to drive her to the airport so she could fly back to New York, to her aunt. But, she was now standing in the middle of the airport, sporting navy blue TOMS, red skinny jeans, and a Real Madrid jersey, carrying her athletic bag on her shoulder with her purse at her feet. She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. "When I bought your ticket, it seems that I picked the wrong destination and got a second one, so I hope you don't mind that I'm going with you on this little adventure." She then handed Maria the envelope.

Maria raised an eyebrow before ripping into the envelope and pulling out its content. It was an airplane ticket. A single airplane ticket. She glanced up at Evelyn, who still had an expectant look on her face. So, there was more to the ticket than the simple fact that it was a ticket. She pulled the ticket out from its little holder and began to read the details. It was roundtrip, which was odd; she was supposed to be returning home. As she read more closely, she finally reached the destination: Vatican City.

"Holy shit!" Maria squeaked, immediately covering her mouth out of some worry that she'd get in trouble if more curse words spilled past her lips. "We're going to Vatican City!" She began to jump up and down, excited like a girl whose father had just told her she'd gotten a pony. This was much more than a simple pony, though. This was unbelievable. "Can we…" She trailed off before starting again. "Could you…" She groaned, frustrated with how difficult it was to word her question.

"Yes, I'm going to take you to see the Pope," Evelyn nodded, a large grin on her face. "Now, come on." She began to walk through the airport to the right terminal, waving for Maria to follow her. "We can't be late for our flight."

 **\- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

There was a knock at his door. He stood up and was only halfway to the door when the door actually opened. He froze for a moment. Whoever opened the door without his permission must be _gutsy_ or _very_ important, possibly even a combination of _both_. What he _wasn't_ expecting, though, was Evelyn to walk in, a girl he'd never met before in tow.

"Hi, Patrick," Evelyn smiled. She stepped forward, her arms inching up slightly. He exhaled and hugged her, still nervous with the looks the girl was giving him. She had to be at least fourteen or fifteen. "This is Maria," Evelyn introduced, motioning to the girl, who then nervously tucked a lock of sandy blonde hair behind her ear. "She's from my soccer camp. She's always wanted to meet you." She leaned forward to whisper in Patrick's ear, "I wouldn't normally do this, but she was born the same year you became Pope. You're pretty much Superman for her. And a guardian angel of sorts." She leaned back and motioned Maria forward.

As Patrick smiled at her, trying to ease some of her obvious nerves, he quickly did some mental math. If she was born the year he became Pope, she'd only be... ten years old. She was _ten_? The thought mentally flabbergasted him for a moment. She was _incredibly_ tall for her age. Of course, he shouldn't judge – the woman Maria was standing next too wasn't all too tall _herself_ , and when he'd first met Amara, _she_ 'd been a good head taller than everyone else, too.

"This is Michael I," Evelyn introduced, making eye contact with Maria and indicating Patrick. She kissed his ring, as was the traditional and Catholic greeting, and looked up at him and grinned widely. "Your Holiness," she murmured, beaming, "it's… _such_ an honor to meet you." He realized that she was really meeting some sort of idol for her. A beat later, all the breath in his lungs left him. Her eyes, her gorgeous green eyes, were Amara's - even _with_ the shades of grey throwing him off a bit. Her eyes, her height, her hair, all of it was Amara's. That could only mean…

"Oh, dear God," he muttered under his breath.

Maria tilted her head to the side, the only outward indication of her confusion. "Your… Holiness…?" She questioned softly, her face and voice betraying nothing. His heart clenched; Amara did the same, concealed her emotions, and yet could be read like an open book for those that knew what to look for. And this girl… Maria… she had many of the same mannerisms. Patrick forced himself to calm; he couldn't jump to conclusions, he couldn't freak out – at least, he couldn't freak out until he knew for sure. Then, if he was given irrefutable proof… _then_ the freaking out could commence. Steadying himself, he cleared his throat, and murmured, "Tell me, Maria, what is your full name, if I may ask…?"

The young blonde stared blankly for a moment, and then answered, her tone hesitant. "Though with all due respect, Holiness, I don't know why you would wish to know… My full name… Is Maria Tenou."

Patrick blanched, the air removed from his lungs once again, and feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. He looked to Evelyn, then, betrayal written in his grey-blue eyes. The soccer-player's ice blue eyes widened in horror, as she put two and two together and got four exactly.

"I'm sorry," she all but squeaked. "I knew, but… I think I just forgot what her last name was, since I never used it…"

Maria looked back and forth between the two, confused, but her face remaining blank. "Pardon my rudeness, but…" Usually she wouldn't have cared that she was being rude, but, in this case, she made use of the manners she had had drilled into her head since she was very young. "Did I do something… wrong…?"

Evelyn shook her head, seeming almost frantic as she tried to explain, but just ended up tripping over her words. "No! Not at all, Maria! It's just… Do you remember… When you told me that… you saw Michael I – Patrick – as your father? Um… well…" She attempted to explain, but failed, and so Patrick, though he was still nearly completely shell-shocked, forced himself to divert the proverbial fire to himself.

At Maria's nod, he spoke.

"Maria… There is no easy way for me to say this, but… It's true." He knew it was slightly lame, but it was all he could manage at the moment.

For once, Maria allowed her perplexity to show on her face, but only slightly. "It's true…?" She echoed, for once her mind failing her.

What was said next… shocked her more than anything had in her life up to that point. (If someone started making _Star Wars_ referenced someday, she would kill them with her bare hands.)

"It's true," Patrick reiterated. "I am your father."

Grey-green eyes widened, her mask shattering. "No…" she whispered, shaking her head, as she backed up slightly. "No…"

"Maria – " He reached out for her, but she jerked away, the revelation that she _had_ a father having rocked her to her core.

"NO!" Her final denial was almost screamed, as she turned and fled from the room. As she turned and ran, both adults could have sworn they saw tears streaming down her cheeks.

Patrick moved to follow the girl – _his daughter_ how in the name of God was he supposed to feel about or react to that?! – but stopped, when he felt Evelyn's hand upon his shoulder. He looked back at her, questioning. His anguish over both the situation and the hurt he had caused Maria showed clearly in his eyes.

"No, _amor_ ," she murmured, shaking her head slightly. It seemed that the blonde had regained herself by this time. "You need to let her go. This is a scared place for her; she won't do anything drastic, but… She needs to be alone for now. You can talk to her later, once we've called in the cavalry and gotten the full story." By ' _the cavalry_ ' she obviously meant Amara and Michelle.

He sighed, but nodded. "You're right," he murmured, but then his expression hardened. "I just hope that this never gets out… If it does, I'll have cries and charges of heresy brought down on my head faster than one can say ' _rape_ '…" His humor was grim, but then again, so was the situation.

Little did either of them know, that his words would end up being prophetic.


End file.
